whispers down the hall
by Sherlock and Basil
Summary: Rumours can destroy more than a person; they can destroy the whole world, and someone is trying it in Lima, Ohio.
1. did you hear about kurt?

**Disclaimer**: we _wish_. no, seriously. you have no idea.  
**Dedication**: to the fantastic amount of plot-holes. we have cement, and we're planning to do some filling.

**Notes**: this is going to be long. Really, really,_ really_ long.

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"Did you hear Kurt got a sex change?"

Quinn froze in her steps. She could not have heard that properly because surely the Cheerios gossiping behind her knew that she was there and knew that gossiping about any member of New Directions was the _fastest_ way to land on her dark side.

"Seriously?" the second Cheerio, a taller girl with badly bleached hair giggled, "I'm not surprised; he was always so girly."

"But isn't he at an all-boys school now?" a third Cheerio jumped in.

And Quinn had heard enough.

She straightened her back and put on her best Sue-face, rounding on the other members of the squad with her arms crossed and her hip out and her right food tapping on the floor. As always, it only took a few moments for the others to feel the shift in the air, all eyes turning to her.

"Go change into some workout clothes," she ordered, her voice never rising above a soft-spoken murmur but she knew they all heard her.

"Um," the badly bleached Cheerio nervously raised her hand, "Why do we need to do that?"

Quinn grinned with very bit of bitchiness she could muster, "Because I don't want you ruining your uniforms with sweat stains."

She knew she was being a bit rough, but she needed to wear them out to get them talking. If she'd learned anything in the past year, it was how to manipulate the grapevine. After the Gorilla vs Kurt debacle and the recent Finn/Rachel drama and the ongoing saga of Shue and the counselor and Puck going to juvy and Be—

No, stop right there, Quinn. No thinking about that, about _her._

She took a deep breath before turning around and leaving the gymnasium. She stopped at the door and wrote down the instructions, leaving Becky in charge. She knew she could trust the mini-Sue to carry out her torture. She, on the other hand, had more important business to attend to.

Like hunting down Mercedes.

Because _that_ would really be a difficulty.

Quinn trotted towards the Glee room.

Well, this _was_ Mercedes she needed, and, really, where _else_ would she be?

And Quinn was not to be disappointed.

* * *

Mercedes was sitting at the piano, fingers splayed out thoughtlessly across the keys. She was humming softly—not any tune in particular, or, at least, not one that Quinn knew, and pressing the keys down, one at a time.

She looked very lonely.

At the sound of footsteps, she looked up, and blinked, "Oh. Hey, Quinn. What's up?"

"What's this about Kurt having a sex change?"

"Ex-cuse me? Kurt? Sex-change? When?"

Quinn's hands were on her hips. "That's what the Cheerios are saying."

"You've gotta stop talking to those morons, girl. I saw him yesterday. He still looked like a _he_," Mercedes replied, flapping her hand.

"Those 'morons' are usually more informed than the teachers...and when has Kurt ever looked like a _he_?"

"They're ditzes, and you know it. He has a penis, honey. There has been no sex change."

The two girls looked at each other for a moment. Sometimes it was better not to ask how information was found.

"Okay, so they're wrong. That doesn't change the fact that that rarely happens, so something must be going on," Quinn paused, and wrinkled her forehead, "Is he seeing anyone? Has he taken up drag?"

Mercedes flapped her hand again, as if she was warding off an irksome fly, "No, no, he's not! I mean, he's still sorta-dating Blaine, right. And I only wish for the drag."

"You and the rest of us," but the wrinkle remained on the Cheerio's forehead, "Hmm, they're never outright wrong. Are you sure nothing has changed?"

"Completely sure. C'mon, Quinn, think about it—Finn, at least, would have said something."

"You're forgetting I _dated_ Finn. The boy couldn't tell his textbook from his toaster if someone didn't tell him," Quinn replied, deadpan.

"Honey, that _still_ doesn't explain why you dated him in the first place. He's dumber than a post," Mercedes said, and tapped her nose to send the point home.

"He's moderately pretty and he was the quarterback. I was the head cheerleader. It's all politics," because that totally explained everything. Quinn paused, to shrug, "Is it maybe something about this Blaine?"

"Politics smolitics, that boy can't tell his Prada from his poochies. Blaine... I dunno. Kurt... likes him a lot."

"Oh? And why has nothing happened? And politics are very important in high school," Quinn tried.

"Because this is _Kurt_ we're talking about. And they are not, they're pointless."

When you were at the bottom, the hierarchy was pointless. When you were at the top, it was _still_ pointless—Mercedes wasn't about to back off on that point.

"So? This is Kurt. Nothing stops that boy when he wants something. And they are not pointless. They're how you network for the future," Quinn replied, prim.

"You didn't see him when it came to Finn. He angsts, darling. And they so are—hello, we are in _Lima_. There is _no such thing_ as—" Mercedes raised her hands, and air quoted her next words "—'_networking_' here, if you recall."

Quinn looked pained, "I wouldn't want to see anyone pining after Finn. Rachel is painful enough. And Kurt knows the meaning of angst? Since when?" she shrugged, and continued, "If you don't learn networking now, how will you survive outside of Lima?"

Mercedes raised an eyebrow, "It was worse than Rachel, if that's even possible. Since always. It might be important for Real Life, but this is high-school, Quinn, remember."

Both girls thought about this prospect for a moment.

Both felt slightly sick.

"...I think I just lost what appetite I had," Quinn said, with an ugly twist to her mouth.

"Mmm, it had that effect on a lot of us. Tina almost puked," Mercedes paused, shook her head, and added, "Twice."

"Urgh. Okay, so Kurt angsts. Maybe that's what's changed? He's gotten over Blaine? He is in college now, isn't he?"

There was a very long pause.

Mercedes stared, "Are you kidding me?"

"It's possible," Quinn said, with a tilt to her jaw, "Emotions mean nothing when you're a teen."

"That would be like a heroin-addict quitting cold-turkey," Mercedes replied, bored.

"Mercedes, if you actually _care_, then you'll end up just loving someone who can never love you back and wishing for..." Quinn broke off, looking guilty, "Are you absolutely sure his 'feelings' haven't changed?"

Mercedes sighed, almost sad, "Quinn, I honestly wish I could say they had. Blaine's in college miles away from here now, but it's made it worse, I think. Kurt was talking about him with that star-struck look he reserves for the people he's in love with. And don't tell me about love, because you, miss, know how I feel about that."

"Oh god, it's that bad? And please tell me you aren't going to give me another tooth-rotting ballad about love."

Quinn did that look very well, Mercedes thought—that _I'm about to be sick, you disgust me_ look, "It's worse. And don't _make_ me get my Gaga on."

"Worse?" Quinn paused to think, "As long as it's not Bieber."

"Worse," Mercedes confirmed, "That kid's balls still haven't dropped. I can't hit half the notes he squeaks."

"I'm not even sure _I_ can squeak that high."

"Who the hell would _want_ to?"

"Rachel?"

"Don't be mean," but Mercedes really couldn't blame her, so she said nothing more. Those sweaters were _ugly_.

"You know I like her as much as I can, but she's such an easy target," Quinn said, almost smiling.

"We burned those sweaters of hers for a reason," Mercedes shuddered,

"But she just replaced them. I thought Kurt had promised to take her shopping for real clothes."

Mercedes sighed again, this time infinitely more sad, "I thought so, too."

As if that closed the subject.

* * *

It was a normal day: yelling at freshies in the hallway, torturing Will Shuester about his girly hair, reading through her many pieces of fanmail—including one that involved using poor Kurt Hummel for some dastardly deed (she promptly snorted and ignored this one)—and just generally making life difficult for those poor unfortunate souls who weren't Sue Sylvester.

She cracked the vertebrae in her neck by tilting her head from left to right before standing, scowl set in place. She only had twenty pieces of fanmail.

That was unacceptable.

Becky was off helping Quinn run the Cheerios and that gave her the time she needed to hunt down a one William Shuester for some much needed stress relief. Telling him to get some personal hygiene in the form of less hair gel was always a good way to blow off steam.

She loved the way the students backed away in fear when she walked down the halls, thrived in it. It showed that there was some order in the mayhem that was adolescence, something Figgins had no respect for. The mindless, sex-addicted fools needed a figure to fear and respect and Figgins was too easily manipulated and Shuester too weak and Dough-Girl too neurotic.

She would eventually tear apart this administration. It was only fair, after all, since the one time she finally succeeded and took control, that Karofsky boy went and ruined it all. She still hadn't found proper retribution for that since the expulsion failed. Hmm, perhaps adding the board of governors to that list would be a good idea...

Yes, that would do. It would take some time, but no one messed with-

She shook her head, trying to get the insane thoughts out of her head. Hummel was none of her concern since he left for Dalton...but he _was_ one of the Cheerios and she _was_ responsible for them. Her steps slowed as she considered her options. She could, on one hand, keep standing up for him on grounds that he was a Cheerio at the time the Karofsky Incident occurred. That he was also a charter member of New Directions could just be a minor technicality. On the other hand, she could ignore the whole thing on grounds that he was a charter member of New Directions and could sweep the whole "Kurt was a Cheerio" thing under the rug. But she had to keep Quinn happy because she needed her head cheerleader in a good mood to keep said head cheerleader because Quinn was wicked in more ways than one. There was also the fact that she needed to keep Brittany and Santana on the squad. Certain transgressions aside, the three were a pinnacle of power needed to keep the lower Cheerios under control. She'd already experienced the mayhem of loosing Quinn and knew she couldn't put the team at risk like that again.

And keeping Quinn happy meant standing by Hummel.

She scowled, not liking that defending this boy, no matter how much she liked him, would mean siding with that pansy Spanish teacher.

And Miss Married-in-Vegas.

Sue stopped, leaning back to look into the counselor's office. The girl was tugging at her coat, looking guilty as she could be. Finally she turned around and pulled it off, the movement tugging her collar down enough that Sue could see the discolored skin running over her shoulder.

She couldn't resist.

"Rough time last night?" she greeted, a smile in place because this would _so_ find its way into her next conversation with Shuester.

"I- I- no, I just-"

Her grin turned dark, a predator sauntering into the office as the little mouse cowered behind her desk, eyes wider than her forehead could accommodate, "It's nothing the ingrates coming in and out of your office don't do."

"It's- not quite like that, Sue," Dough-Girl tried to defend, her shoulders squaring in what was surely a failed attempt at seeming bigger than her measly size.

"If you're ashamed of it..." she taunted.

The girl actually _glared_, "I'm not ashamed of anything."

Her head was held too high, her voice too strong, but her eyes still too wide with fear. This one had gotten brave since marrying the dentist.

"I'll be sure to pass that on to Shuester later. Perhaps he'll stop putting so much hair gel in those princess curls of his if he's too busy crying about this."

"I- Sue, no," she insisted, "That's cruel. And Will and I- we're just friends."

She was about to respond, to put this uppity mouse in place when someone knocked on the door of the office. She spun around, glare set and lips twitching to insult whatever pathetic piece of hormonally drenched adolescence had dragged itself to-

"Callahan?"

One of her Cheerios, a short thing with badly bleached hair that clashed horribly with her uniform-she would have to remember to have this fixed-was panting at the door, "Hello, Coach."

"I- Is there something you need?" the shaky voice behind her was quickly silenced with a well-placed scowl.

Smartly, the Cheerio ignored Mrs. Dentist, "Coach, can you do something about Fabray?"

"What's she done?" it wasn't the first time she'd dealt with complaints about her head cheerleader from the others, but most were simply jealous that the once-exiled girl had reclaimed the top position with no effort.

"She made us run around the school six times and then do core exercises before repeating the six laps."

...

That was new.

Very new, actually, because Sue happened to know every exercise routine she'd approved for the Cheerios and that one was crueler than anything she'd heard of.

...she liked it.

"She's showing initiative, which is more than you're doing, Callahan."

"Sue!"

"She's being vindictive," the Cheerio snapped.

"So what did you do to her?"

"Nothing!"

Sue just arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow, "Fabray doesn't act without provocation."

"I mean," the Cheerio continued, not really hearing her Coach, something she would need to pay for later, "She might have heard us talking."

"About?"

The Cheerio blinked a few times before speaking.

"Haven't you heard? Apparently Kurt Hummel got a sex change."

* * *

Ten minutes later, William Shuester had a very unpleasant surprise.

"Sue. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Sue Sylvester stood before him, in all her red velveteen track-suited glory, "Certainly not your sparkling hair. Do you trade beauty tips with Edward Cullen?"

Shue let out a long-suffering sigh. It was too early in the day to play mind-games with Sue Sylvester, "Sue, why are you here?"

"A Cheerio just told me Kurt Hummel is now a woman."

The coffee that Will had been in the midst of imbibing spewed everywhere, "_What_?"

Sue spared him a single look of utmost disdain, "So I want to know what has been going on among these degenerate choir kids and what you know about that school of his because_ no_ Cheerio of mine is getting a sexual reassignment surgery."

"Because you suddenly care about ex-students? And how should his gender matter, hm? Doesn't scare you, does it? The idea of him becoming a girl?" he said. He rested his chin on his palm, and acted as disinterested as possible.

It would likely make her angrier.

And it did.

"I care because he was a Cheerio when he left and he never formally left the team! And as for the subject of his gender, yes, it does matter. Someone had to show these losers how to be a real man!"

"Is this you _caring_, Sue?" Will asked, mock-surprise written all over his features.

_Definitely_ making her angrier.

"You'll see me caring when I rip all those gel-filled curls out of your head and paste them to Miss Doughgirl's door. Now tell me what you know about this."

Will was almost tempted to study his nails, "Why should I do that, Sue? How is it any of your concern?"

"Will Shuester, you will tell me what I want to know or all your little freaks will find out about you spying on the married fake-shrink and her blow-up dentist husband."

"Sue, you don't scare me anymore," Will chuckled, "Anyway, I saw him yesterday."

"Are you calling my Cheerios liars?"

"Yes, I am," it was as simple as that—yes, he was calling those bleached-brain-dead girls liars, "Because when I saw him—note, this was _yesterday_, Sue—he was Kurt Hummel, as he always is, and very much a _he_."

"I'll have you know that my Cheerios are smarter than all your little sideshow combined. If this was some rumour you started to make them look like fools..."

Will's voice was sharp, "Sue. Don't go there."

Because those kids were good kids, and they were his life; he would do nothing to hurt them. Never. _Never._

"Don't go where? Tired of sitting back while I do everything I can to take down Glee? Finally decide to start fighting back? Well good for you, but this is the wrong way to do it, buster."

"...I am not having this conversation with you, right now. Kurt's still a boy. Your Cheerios are liars. I have papers to grade. Good day."

"I will relish the day I can rip out that spine of yours and use it to make a ukulele your kids will pass down from generation to generation. Oh wait! You don't have any children and Glee won't last that long."

And with a swish of red velveteen track-suit, Sue and her snarling was gone.

Will sat back in his chair, and chuckled.

* * *

Sam Evans was_ not _freaking out.

Okay, so maybe that was something of a lie.

He was pressed against the lockers, trying to ignore his racing heart and trying to erase the conversation he'd just heard from his mind. He was surprised Sue Sylvester hadn't noticed him freaking out next to Mr. Shue's office door when she went sweeping out, then again, Sue Sylvester didn't really notice anything in the spectrum of nondescript football players. He wasn't even sure she'd ever acknowledged his existence and he was almost convinced that she still thought Quinn and Puck were together.

Wait, why was he there?

Right, he needed to talk to Mr. Shue about missing practice tomorrow because of a doctor's appointment. Which would be so easy if not for the fact that Mr. Shue just took on Sue Sylvester and apparently didn't break a sweat.

Which brought him back to the overheard conversation. He knew quite a bit was said, but he only really heard the part about Kurt being a woman. He was realizing that he perhaps should have listened a little more closely. That, or he could just go into the office and ask for a clarification from Mr. Shue. He seemed like a nice enough guy, even if Sam didn't know him all that well. The most he knew about him was what he heard from the other New Directions members and some of that wasn't very good.

Actually, a lot of it wasn't very good.

Which left him with a bit of a problem.

"Who to ask, who to ask?" he mumbled under his breath as he mentally went through everyone he could think of.

There was Rachel, who he knew was close to Kurt. She was a bit too neurotic for him to deal with for any prolonged amount of time or without a third party present. She also didn't seem to like him for taking Finn's spot on the football team, even if that was all dealt with and she was no longer dating Finn.

There was Quinn, who he was dating and who frequently answered his questions about various things at the school. She didn't seem overly close to Kurt, though, and he knew for a fact that the two hadn't crossed paths since Kurt left for Dalton.

There was Mercedes, who he knew was supposedly Kurt's best friend. She kind of scared him, though. There was just something about the way she got along with Santana that just put him on edge.

There was Santana, but she rarely said anything nice about anyone and so he doubted she would be able to help him with anything that wouldn't constitute cheating on Quinn.

There was Brittany-no, not Brittany. Sam doubted she would know the meaning of the term "sex change" or even the word "sex" in a way that didn't mean spreading her legs. That girl was something else and he was still trying to figure out if she was sane because her brain certainly wasn't firing on all cylinders.

There was Tina, but he wasn't sure he'd ever spoken more than two words to her. If even that, actually.

There was Mike, but Mike openly admitted to not knowing Kurt very well, despite being one of the first to defend him. Sam had already tried asking him something about Kurt because Mike seemed to be the nicest and most discreet of the Glee guys, only to be told that Mike and Kurt were never really friends.

There was Puck, who was a strong defender of Kurt, but who likely wouldn't know anything about the boy's personal life.

There was Artie, who likewise was a staunch defender of Kurt and was at least some kind of friend, but he also didn't seem to be close enough to him to know anything.

There was Finn, who was Kurt's brother-

Sam facepalmed as he came to this conclusion. Of course Finn would know. He and Kurt, though not speaking often, did live together. He would be one of the first to know if Kurt were no longer one of the boys. Who wouldn't notice if their brother were suddenly a sister? If something like that had happened, Finn probably knew about it long before.

So it was settled then. He squared his shoulders and set off towards his English class, completely forgetting what he had left class to talk to Mr. Shue about. He was going to talk to Finn before football practice, and that was all he needed to worry about.

He just wasn't counting on the way time seemed to slow down when there was something to wait for, because the rest of the day dragged.

And dragged.

And _dragged._

Sam stared at the clock. English class should have ended by now—had time stopped? That would have been an awful thing.

But finally, the bell rang. He grabbed his books, stuffed them into his bag, and nearly tripped over four desks as he rushed towards the door. There was no telling how long it would take Finn to get to the locker room, but it really couldn't take _that_ long, and this was more important that Sam cared to admit.

* * *

Finn was stripping his shirt off when Sam reached him.

"Hey... um. Finn. Uh. There's this... thing..."

Finn blinked at him. "What's up?"

"DidKurtgetasexchangewhenIwasn'tlooking?"

Finn stared, looking a little bit punch-drunk, "Kurt, sex change—wait, when were you looking?"

Sam turned bright, bright red and mumbled incoherently.

(This was not helping his case.)

"What's this? The girl-boy finally decided to go all girl?"

Finn's voice was steady, his eyes cold, "Shut the fuck up, Karofsky. That's my brother you're talking about."

"What? I just find it interesting? Is Sammy here happy that he can actually like his little pansy now?"

Finn's gaze turned icier. He was going to pound the fucker to dust when no one was looking, "Interesting is a good fuckin' word for it. It's not true. Now get on the field. I won't lose on account of you sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

Yes, interesting was a good fucking word for it.

Finn was going to be doing some questioning of his own, when he got home.

Seriously, Kurt? Female?

That was just—no. Just no.

Finn shoved his helmet on his head. He was going to get to the bottom of this, even if it nearly killed him to do it.

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Extra notes:

**Sara's nose is itchy**: Finn with a backbone? WHAT IS THIS? Also, this was a long-time coming—please don't tell me we're the only ones who see these problems.

**Emily is probably annoying her roommate**: Shue with a backbone? WHAT IS THIS? I second everything Sara said. Please tell us we're not the only ones.


	2. did you hear about quinn?

sorry for the wait, ladies and gents. and hey, we hope you actually review this time!  
**disclaimer**: Glee isn't ours. If it was, it would look like this story.  
**dedication**: to all the wonderful plotlines that were unnecessarily slaughtered by canon on this night, and to the fantastic job the writers are doing of messing up all good things. GOOD JOB, GUYS.

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Santana was a mostly intelligent girl.

Smart? Yes (she wasn't failing anything, right?). Pretty? Oh, yes (she saw the way people—boys and girls and _everyone—_looked at her). Cruel? No (—er. Maybe a little).

But, really, she knew when something was good for her. She knew when something had the potential to put her on top and _keep_ her on top.

And this...

This had that potential.

_Be in the office in five minutes, and you'll be cheer captain_.

Santana stared down at her phone, a strange little smile on her face. Not that she didn't want to be cheer captain—what girl in her right mind didn't?—but this was... odd. She didn't know the number, didn't know the sender, didn't know how she was supposed to get out of class...

Her curiosity was really going to kill her, one day.

* * *

Sam didn't like Santana.

Not at all.

She was downright terrifying and he often wondered if she was really human. He'd had enough nightmares to convince at least a small portion of his brain that she was really a demon hiding in pretty skin. The way she looked at him sometimes made him think of a lioness staring down a gazelle and he had always considered himself a relatively aggressive guy.

He was hiding out in the dark locker room because he'd heard Santana was on the hunt for him. He wasn't sure why, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he did _not_ want to know. When that girl took it in her head to toy with someone, there was no hope for survival. All he could do was fend off the storm for long enough to...

to...

...do something that might...

He was fucked.

He groaned, placing his head in his hands. Normally he'd go to Quinn for help but the last time Santana came after him it was because of Quinn. This being an outsider crap was starting to grate his nerves. He still wasn't sure how to deal with it. He and Finn were some kind of friends and he just probably needed to stop lying to people. He kind of regretted shutting down Kurt. Yeah, the guy was hitting on him, but he was a potential friend.

That was something he could really use.

It was also something he'd never really had. Moving around as much as he did made forging friendships more than a little difficult. In some schools, being the outsider-

The door swung open and he heard the deliberate footsteps of a hunter.

"Well, look who it is-Chick Lips."

He jolted, standing and backing away from her, "Santana, you do realize this is the boys' locker room?"

"Am I supposed to care?" she just grinned.

He was fairly certain he could see light dancing off her teeth.

"If you're looking for Finn," he struggled, trying to find something that would distract her because he really, _really_ didn't want to hear what it was that she wanted, "He won't be here for another hour or so."

Still with the smiling, still with the grinning, still with the slow steps, "Ew, Finn. Why would I want to look for him when I have you here, all ready and willing to be a torture victim?"

That made him twitch. Some of the wariness faded and he stood up a little straighter, his feet no longer moving him away from her, "What's this about? I haven't done anything you and nothing has happened that could fuel that little rumour mill in your head."

"Ohhhhh, Sammy, you have _no_ idea what fuels my little rumour mill."

There was a horrible cooing sound to her voice. It was the trademark of resident High School Queen Bitches everywhere and he'd heard it more times than he cared to think about, but there was just something about the way Santana did it that made that sound worthy of a horror film.

"Don't call me that," he mumbled.

Her grin widened, "What do you want me to call you then? Yo-Simmity-Sam? Seal-Salt-Sam? Sammy-Bammy-Whammy?"

Sam tried to hide his scowl, looking around for a possible escape route. She was calling him odd things and it was making him twitch and he had a pretty good memory. The image of what happened to the last person to do that just kept flashing through his mind. The feel of the fight was still echoing in his blood, forcing him to think about breathing and relaxing and not-

"You could try my name," and somehow he managed to keep his voice calm.

"But your name is boring."

"And yours made me think of a guy the first time I heard it."

..._not_ the plan, Evans.

He winced, knowing immediately that what he'd said was likely to make her more vicious. There was already enough glee in what she was doing that he knew whatever rumour she'd found, it was something meant to be devastating. Sam might have been pretty, but he wasn't dumb. He was smart enough to know when he'd fucked up and the way Santana's body seemed to tense was more than enough to know that he had _seriously_ fucked up.

"It's classic rock, sweet-cheeks, my mother was fucking the bassist."

Maybe he hadn't, which meant she probably wasn't going to react to him saying, "Like mother, like daughter."

"Mmm, what do you think?" she finally stopped walking, moving to sit down on the bench he'd been sitting on when she entered, "Oh, wait. That requires a brain. Never mind."

"Is there something you need?"

_That_ was the wrong thing to say. He saw the way that predatory light sparked up and knew that she was getting ready to go in for the kill. At that point, there was enough irritation in his blood stream that he almost didn't care.

She waved dismissively, "Oh no. Just to gloat a little bit- I love gloating, in case you didn't know."

"What is it this time?" he sighed, "Trick another couple into getting mono? Here to question my sexuality?"

One was a trademark of hers, he reasoned, and the other a common issue he faced. His mind was slowly becoming louder, telling him over and over again that Santana was just a bully and that there was nothing she could say that could really hurt him. It might sting, but it was just hollow words from a hollow girl.

"Please, mono is boring, and your sexuality is so closeted, I want to buy you a rainbow man-bra. No, it's bigger than that," she was gloating, her posture relaxed and almost friendly.

"You're marrying Karofsky?" he guessed, sincerely hoping for the sake of world peace that that was not happening.

She giggled.

She _giggled_.

And it wasn't a good oh-you're-so-cute-I-think-I-like-you kinds of giggles. It was one of those this-sounds-so-innocent-but-you-know-it's-so-not kind of giggles.

It was really pretty fucking creepy.

"Aww, jealous? Nope, keep guessing."

"You've decided to start dressing like Rachel," he was kind of hoping she'd get pissed off and leave without telling him what she was feeling so cheerful about

"That's like asking if a bear's Christan," she grimaced, "Man-Hands' wardrobe is already up for burning at the stake. You could join it, but you're still not even close."

He took a deep breath, fists clenching as he tried the diplomatic route, "Santana, I don't have time for this. Unless you have something to say, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. This is the _boys'_ locker room."

Only to fail.

Again.

And _spectacularly _so.

She just grinned that horrible grin before moving in a way that made her skirt slip up to her hip before standing. Her hips swayed as she turned around and started walking away. He began to relax, thinking that maybe he was wrong and she was listening to reason-

Reason? Santana? He knew that word didn't exist in her vocabulary.

And sure enough, she turned around, that grin in place. She acted as if she were remembering something when she tapped her fingers against her lip before she said, "Like anyone is really going to complain. And you will have time for this-Quinn's supposedly a mother again. Just thought I'd tell you."

And then she waggled her fingers in some kind of goodbye before disappearing out the door.

He had no idea what she was in there for but-wait, what?

Quinn? Motherhood? Again?

_What the hell? _

That was impossible. He and Quinn hadn't...

...but that was how it happened the last time, wasn't it?

Suddenly, he really wanted to break something. Distantly, he realized he was shaking and that calming down would be a _very good idea_. He tried focusing on his breathing, on the silence, on the way the red paint of the lockers was beginning to peal but nothing was working. His mind just kept going back to the words "Quinn" and "motherhood" and all that was doing to him was tying his thoughts into knots. It was bringing out the bad kind of adrenaline he'd worked so hard to keep quiet. Football was supposed to be helping him control the aggression and he was doing better. He'd only been in a couple of fights since switching schools, nothing like his record at his old school.

He managed to resist the urge to beat up Finn last year during the mono incident and he was doing so well at refraining from punching Shue.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Nope, he still felt like breaking something and he was beginning to shake with the effort to control himself.

_The deal, Evans, think of the deal. _The mantra repeated over and over again in his head. The deal was all that saved him during the Finn Incident last year. If it could work then, then it could work now.

But this wasn't like then. This was Quinn cheating on him in the worst way. He knew the story about Beth, about how that one little child nearly destroyed New Directions. Quinn never showed any strong emotions relating to it, often changing the subject when her sophomore year entered the conversation. She didn't talk about it. He'd learned about Beth via the grapevine, not from her.

And now he was hearing about this through the grapevine. He knew that he shouldn't believe it, but Santana was one of the very few honest sources in the school. She was vicious, but she was honest to a fault. He couldn't recall one instance of her lying.

He needed to calm down.

Water. He needed water. That always worked in the past. He took one last deep breath before making his way toward the showers. He didn't bother undressing or locking the stall door. He just stepped in and turned on the water and setting it to the coldest side of the control. For a minute he just stood there beneath the water, his clothes slowly growing heavy. The thought about everything and nothing in an attempt to calm the darkness. He thought about his last memory of his father, his first memory of his mother in uniform, the way his grandmother smiled when he arrived at her home in Lima, Ohio. He thought about seeing McKinley for the first time and the first time he met Finn. He thought about meeting Kurt and the fear that shot through him when he realized that-

No, wrong avenue.

He thought about Quinn and their song and that near-kiss beneath the planets. He thought about the way their relationship was strange in its origins and yet there was a level of real emotion there. He thought about the way she seemed to soften when she looked at him, the way she leaned against him when they sat outside and watched the stars. He thought about the way that he had believed himself to be different from Finn, the way he thought she would never betray him the way she betrayed her ex.

But she did.

His jaw clenched, his fist slamming against the wall. Then his other fist, and then the other and again and again and again. There were bloodstains on the tile by the time the fire finally faded. His hands were shaking still, but this time from pain he couldn't feel from the numbing of the cold water running over him. He looked down at his bloodied hands, laughing softly before falling to his knees. He moved until he was sitting with his back against the wall, water falling in front of him and his blood above him.

He was freezing, bleeding, and so very numb when he heard someone enter the locker room. He counted down in his head until the newcomer gently pushed open the stall door.

"Hey, Finn."

Finn blinked, "Dude, you're bleeding."

"And?"

"...Shouldn't you get it, I dunno, bandanged? Looks like it hurts..." Finn said with another blink.

"Probably, but I'm kind of comfortable where I am."

"Did you punch the wall?"

"Does it look like I punched the wall?"

"...Yeah, kinda."

Sam chuckled a little brokenly, "Then you can safely assume that I punched the wall."

"Dude, Sam. No reason to flip out. I'm worried, man," Finn replied, hands up.

"I'm not 'flipping out'. I did that about an hour ago. This is called... What is this called?"

"Angsting," said Finn, as if that cleared the matter up, "What did Quinn do now?"

"Santana."

"She fucked Santana? What?" Finn paused for a second, and thought about it, "Not that I'm surprised, but..."

"I'd be jumping for joy if she had. No, Santana heard something," Sam explained, bitter.

"...What?"

"Apparently Quinn's a mom again."

Finn blinked.

And blinked.

And blinked.

"…Huh… Are you sure you heard that correctly?" he asked.

"Have you ever known Santana to lie?" Sam asked in return.

"Well. No."

"Have you ever known her to speak unclearly about a something like that?"

"Well—yeah, no."

(Because Santana reveled in the truth, because the truth was always more cruel than a lie. Finn had experienced that, from her.)

"Exactly."

Finn sighed. "Look man, just—talk to her, okay? Quinn told me when she was pregnant, and yeah, she told me it was mine, but if you ask her to be honest about it, she will be."

"I haven't slept with her, Finn." Sam said, jaw clenched and looking miserable. "The farthest we've gone is kissing."

"Oh. Well. Uh. Still talk to her?"

"How?"

"I dunno. Just ask. And dude, Santana might have heard wrong," Finn said with a helpless shrug.

"Can't I just kill Puck and be done with it?" Sam paused, and then continued. "Since when has Santana ever heard something wrong?"

"It's been known to happen. And you can't kill Puck, because even though he's a douche, he's still my best friend," Finn told him.

(If anyone ever got to kill Puck, it would be Finn himself.)

"Even if he slept with my girl," Sam said, the statement thickly layered with sarcasm.

"He slept with mine once," Finn reminded him quietly. Because Quinn had been Finn's, once—but that had been a long time ago, and it wasn't an experience Finn really wanted to repeat.

"Quinn doesn't really belong to anyone except herself, man."

"Fucking hell. I'm all for equal rights and feminism and all that shit, but what the hell happened to monogamy and honesty?"

Finn could see Sam unraveling.

Unraveling alone was painful.

And so Finn sat down next to the shaking blond boy. The spray of water was icy, and Finn was pretty sure that that must have been why Sam's lips were turning blue. Blue lips couldn't be healthy. He was going to have to wrap this conversation up and get the kid out of the shower before they _both_ got sick.

"Calm down. Look, I know it's crappy, but seriously chill out. You'll just end up exploding at her and not getting the whole story. So just calm, okay?" Finn said, staring up at the ceiling. He wasn't good at this—at comfort (because comfort made him think of Rachel and leaving and all those _wonderful_ things—and the sarcasm ran thick), but Finn knew that not having someone there was worse.

"Were you calm when this happened to you?" Sam asked.

Finn chuckled, "Hell no. I nearly half-killed myself over it. And it wasn't worth the shit. Don't let Santana get to you when you don't even know if she was telling the truth."

"Santana lying would be like Brittany saying she doesn't believe in the Tooth Fairy."

"Santana might not be lying. She might have her information wrong. Just don't blow the fuck up without known what you're getting into," Finn said, leaning back against the shower wall, easy. He'd blown up. He'd screwed it up. The aftermath of blowing up was never fun.

"Dude, I just punched the wall until I bled and have been sitting under near freezing water for more than an hour. You're actually going to try and reason with me?" Sam was still shaking, blood still leaking from his knuckles.

"Yup, because I'm pulling you out of here, and getting you some food. C'mon," Finn told him frankly.

"Then can you let me go so I can go fuck up Puck?"

"Dude, I'll talk to him first, as long as you talk to Quinn. If it actually happened, I won't stand in the way of you breaking his face. Deal?"

"Deal. Food first, though? And maybe some bandages," Sam glanced down at his body, adding, "And some dry clothes."

"Yeah. Come on," Finn said, and stood up. He shivered, the icy water numbing his extremities.

Sam sat there for a long moment, before finally nodding, and grabbing the hand Finn offered him up.

"Thanks."

Finn nodded.

"No problem."

* * *

It was a normal day. Other than Sam glaring at him through choir practice and Santana smirking at him every time she saw him, it was all pretty normal. Well, actually, Santana smirking was common enough. The expression was plastered onto her face, after all, but this was a different smirk. It wasn't the one she gave him when she was looking for a fuck buddy; it was the one she reserved for those occasions when doom was approaching.

He glanced down at the pack of cigarettes. He was probably going to need two to deal with the stress of impending doom.

He lit the one between his lips, tucking his lighter into his pocket with the pack. He took a deep breath in, knowing that he shouldn't be. He'd promised Ruthie he would quit and he did, for a while. Watching his kid sister freak out every time she caught him smoking, even if it was just the faint whiff of secondhand, was enough to put anyone off smoking. He never meant to start up again, but after waking up on Christmas morning to find the house empty of everyone save Ruthie and him-

He breathed out, filling the surrounding air with smoke.

Ruthie would probably kill him when he got home. She was only nine but she was still so spirited. She'd probably kick him when she caught the smell of smoke on him and it would hurt like hell, but at least she'd be showing some life again.

Yeah, that confirmed it, he was smoking two before going back to class.

In, out. In, out.

He liked the rhythm of smoking. It was a foul habit, but the pattern of breathing was comforting in a way the irony of smoking when it was a pack of cigarettes that landed him in this grand mess was not. It was something familiar, though. He didn't think things would be right without the bitter smell of cigarettes around.

"Sup," he greeted, tilting his head back against the dumpster. He didn't need to look to know who it was. He knew those footsteps almost as well as he knew Ruthie's.

"Did you bang Quinn again?"

He paused mid breath, looking at Finn out the corner of his eye. He answered on the exhale, "The fuck? Are you high?"

"Dude, Sam's a mess. Apparently Quinn's pregnant again, and I wanna know if you fucked everyone over again."

He nodded slowly, "Love your show of faith, man."

"This is not the time to fuck around, Puck," Finn snapped.

"It's not me," he took in another breath of smoke, "I haven't touched her in years."

It was a slight lie, but Finn accepted it. He watched carefully as his old friend nodded and shrugged, "I figured as much, but I promised Sam I'd talk to you about it."

Maybe he'd make it three cigarettes before returning to class. He pulled the pack out and counted out many he had. He had enough, so he held it out to Finn, "Want one?"

"Thanks," the taller answered, taking one, "Got a light?"

He put the pack back in his pocket before fishing out the lighter and tossing it Finn's way. When it was back in his pocket and his old friend was smoking next to him like they were on good terms again, he went back to staring at the sky.

So Quinn was knocked up again? A part of him felt betrayed. He remembered what she was like the last time and he couldn't imagine her doing it again. If she had, then what did that mean? Did she not care-

No, it couldn't be. Her greatest failing was that she cared too much. He still remembered the red and the tears and the sound of her soft voice quietly reciting nursery rhymes for a child that would never hear them.

Someone was spreading lies about his Quinn. She wouldn't do that to Sam. She wouldn't do that to him. She wouldn't do that to herself.

She wouldn't do that to Beth.

Make that four cigarettes and no class. Ruthie could beat the shit out of him for all he cared.

He'd probably smile the entire time if she did.

* * *

Quinn was barely breathing.

The only sound was the scritch of pencil against paper and the tick of the clock.

Was this day _over_ yet?

Quinn just wanted to go home, and hide her face in her pillow. Was that so much to ask? Just a break from all the thinking; just some time where she wasn't plotting and manipulating and _thinking_. What wouldn't she give to _not think_, even just for an _evening_?

She tapped her pencil against her lips, and glanced at the clock again.

Ten minutes.

Hadn't it been ten minutes, ten minutes ago?

Quinn dropped her head to her desk, and sighed.

The seconds dragged by.

The prickle of eyes on the back of her neck had Quinn stiff. It'd been like that all day, and Quinn didn't even know _why_. There was no explaining why everyone was suddenly staring at her—god, it felt like when she was pregnant all over again.

She snapped her head up, turned around, and bared her teeth at them all.

(She wished.)

The bell rang.

Saved by the bell, Quinn prayed, and scooped up her books. She shoved them in her bag, and headed for the door.

"Quinn, wait up!"

"Oh, hey," Quinn smiled tiredly at Sam.

He looked nervous. Okay, that was weird.

"Look, Quinn, you'd tell me if something were going on, right?" he asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He was handling the words gingerly, as if they were something dead that he didn't want to touch.

Quinn raised an eyebrow, "Going on? Pardon?"

"Like, if something were going on that everyone would eventually know, you'd tell me. Right?" he questioned again.

"...Of course I would, but I think I'm confused. What are we talking about?"

"You. Me. Us," Sam said. He paused, and his mouth took on an ugly twist, "And Puck."

Quinn stared.

"...Wait. What does Puck have do to with anything?"

"You do have a history with him and it is a history that most guys would be worried about when dating you," Sam said with a wince, "Like me, a normal guy who is dating you."

Quinn could feel her eyes narrowing, "What are you getting at, Sam?"

"Are you cheating on me?" he asked, in a rush, "Or have you ever cheated on me?"

…Was he _legitimately_ asking her that?

"Ex_cuse_ me? No! What gave you _that_ idea?"

"Santana," he admitted, looking guilty.

Rage. Rage everywhere. Quinn had to work to control her voice as she said, "What did that skanky, _envious_ bitch have to say about me?"

Sam continued to shift from foot to foot, "She's evil incarnate, yes, but let's remember that she's also allergic to lying."

Quinn didn't like the nose-dive this conversation was taking; "You know what, I really don't even have anything to say do you. How can you _actually_ think that I'd stoop so low?"

"Because Santana doesn't lie and you and I haven't had sex."

He was actually going there. Okay. Quinn pushed her blonde ponytail over her shoulder, "What does _sex_ have to do with _anything_?"

"Well, for you to be a mom again..."

**_Smack_**.

Quinn had never hit someone before (excluding Puck but that was within reason). That had just changed and Quinn didn't even care because she was _seething_.

Sam stood in front of her, holding his suddenly-red cheek and looking utterly bemused.

"We're done," she hissed. "We are _done_."

And she walked away.

Sam stood there, and watched her go. He did nothing to stop her.

Quinn walked, books clutched to her chest.

Was this really happening again? _Really_?

Was she _really_ going through this, _again_?

Suddenly she was running. Running and running, bag swinging at her side, she sprinted to her car, shaking. She unlocked the driver's seat with trembling fingers, and sat down, numb. Stupid Sam. Why did have to—why did it have to be like _this_?

She just wanted to go home.

That was it.

She wanted to talk to her mother and press her face into her mother's shoulder and she wanted to _cry_.

That was it.

Quinn was never to know quite how she got home; tears blurred her vision, and years later, it would still surprise her that she'd survived that particular drive home. Quinn pushed through the front door, hating everything, dropped her bag at the front door, and went to find her mother.

The woman was on the phone.

"—yes, I see. I understand, Officer, I'll speak to her right away. Yes, don't worry, I'll make sure she understands the implications. Yes, thank you Officer, I hope you have a good day, too."

Quinn's mother placed the phone back in it's cradle, yellow fingernails lingering on the handset. That was the image that Quinn would later always associate with what came next; her mother's long, manicured nails, placing the phone back where it belonged.

"Mom?" Quinn asked,"Is everything okay?"

The relief was plain on her mother's face, "Oh, Quinnie, there you are! I was wondering when you were going to get home."

"Mom. Is everything okay?"

Judy smiled, "Quinnie, sweet, how would you feel if I said you could see Beth again?"

Quinn stared, green eyes wide, "...What?"

There was a strange spark of hope in Judy's eyes, "Quinnie, darling. Beth's adoption—it—well, it wasn't quite legal. Or, rather, not legal at all. The police are looking for Ms.—" and here, Judy's mouth took on a nasty twist, "—Corcoran as we speak."

"So... what does that mean... for me?" Quinn asked.

Judy smiled tremulously, "Oh, love. It means you're going to be a mother again."

* * *

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.

.

Extra thoughts:

**Emily is too tired to cry**: life, love, geekery, and always having nutella on hand. these are the staples of my (in)sanity.  
**Sara is crying. No, seriously**: life, love, cheap wine, and coming home to a kettle on. these are the things that keep me going.


	3. did you hear about blaine?

**disclaimer**: Glee does not belong to us. If it did, it would look like this.  
**dedication**: to twisted fairy tales, but not being sick, because being sick sucks.

* * *

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.

.

* * *

It was a quiet day in the record shop.

Rachel stood behind the counter, hair tucked behind her ear, minding the till. The sun was only up an hour (Rachel was a morning person—not that that was a surprise), and the early-morning sunlight filtered in through the scratched, dusty windows like soft liquid gold. It fell in slats along the racks of CDs and records in a fine layer of happiness.

Rachel hummed along to Stevie Nicks playing in the background as she obsessively wiped the counter until it shined streak-free.

(Had she taken her meds this morning? Rachel didn't even need to think about it. Of course she had.)

The bell over the door jangled.

Rachel looked up and smiled.

He was cute. She didn't normally like redheads, but he was just blonde enough that she could deal with it. He was always in the shop. She thought he must swing by there before school or work or wherever he spent his days. She liked to think it was school. If he was working, then he was probably too old for her.

Then again, she was older than sixteen. According to the state of Ohio, she was old enough to consent and so his age really didn't matter.

Well, it did. If he was too old it would throw off the balance and-she paused. She _had _taken her meds, hadn't she?

(Of course she had. She never forgot, not even if she wanted to.)

"So you decided to come back again?" she called over. She cringed immediately after, hearing the echo of Santana's voice in her head. There might have been a little of Quinn in there too, actually. They were the nasty voices that told her to shut up and to not try. They were the ones that told her she was—no, bad Rachel. Don't go there. Because she was better than that—she was better than them all and they _would not_ bring her down.

"Yeah, I keep hoping you guys will get some more Duran Duran," he answered.

She smiled. Maybe she wasn't so awkward? She started tugging on the rag, blunt-cut nails catching on the frayed edges, and said, "I think that there's a shipment coming in sometime this week. I can check, if you'd like?"

"That'd be nice," he stepped toward the counter, "In the meantime, I suppose I could look for something else."

She tilted her head a little, brown hair falling into the sides of her vision. Brown. Brown was so boring. Why couldn't it have been something other than _brown_? "What do you like? Maybe I can suggest something?"

"What do I like? Let's see: Duran Duran, Big Country, Men at Work, Simple Minds, Crowded House, and a lot of other things."

"I know we have some Big Country. If you look over in the corner, you should find them," she tried to ignore the way his hands on the counter left marks, because all she could think was _don't clean, don't clean, don't clean_, and, "Can I ask what songs you like? Crowded House, I mean. Which songs of theirs do you like?"

Mercedes's voice joined the scolding in her mind. She knew she was being awkward, but he was smiling and being nice, so clearly she wasn't being too strange.

"Do you like Crowded House?"

Rachel actually almost laughed, but stopped herself. _No, he wouldn't like you, you're boring and crazy and obsessive and **remember Finn**? Remember what he said?_

"My boss played one of their songs in a rare break from Fleetwood Mac. I really liked it."

"Start with _Recurring Dream._ It's a greatest hits album and it has pretty much all of their best music on it. What was the song you heard?"

"I think the boss said it was called _Private Universe_?" she blinked, unsure.

He nodded, "Yeah, that's on there. So is _Into Temptation_, which is kind of similar sound-wise."

Rachel tucked strands of hair (brown hair, why did it have to be _brown_? Why couldn't it be something pretty, like blonde or red or black or _anything except dull, limp **brown**_) and smiled at him. "I'll look into it. The Crowded House and the Duran Duran, that is."

"How long have you been working here?"

"It shows that I'm new, doesn't it?"

"Just a little."

She sighed, and tucked another errant strand away. Why wouldn't her hair stay _down_? He probably thought she was some sort of freak, and really, she couldn't blame him—she could still see his hand prints on the counter, and it was taking every last bit of her willpower not to scrub at them. "I've been here for about two months now. I was the only recruit willing to take the early shift. Do you work around here?"

"Mmhmm. I work at the nursery down the road."

"Nursery? Like, little children?"

"Like plants," he clarified, "I used to work at the GAP downtown until a friend got me fired."

"What?" Rachel blinked. Fired? He didn't look like the type to get fired. He looked... sweet. Cute. Unable to hurt someone. Exactly the type of guy she wanted to date. Then again, the last guy she'd dated like that... well. That was different story, and not one to dwell on. Rachel wasn't in the mood to start crying. She pushed Finn to the back of her mind, and tuned back in to what the boy was saying.

"—flash mob, pissed off manager, awkward moment," he shrugged, "It was a rather bizarre day. It was sweet, though I always figured Blaine had a thing for my brother, so it was kind of random."

Something clicked in her mind at the description, "Blaine Anderson?"

He grinned sheepishly, "Yeah, you know him?"

Rachel paused. How to describe Blaine? There was her awkward not-relationship with him. There was his very awkward not-relationship with Kurt. There was... She didn't want to describe her relationship with Blaine, because it made her obsess, and her therapist had said that she _shouldn't do that anymore, Rachel, dear, it's going to make you crazy. Obsessing is bad_.

(Rachel had never been very good at following directions.)

"He's a friend. Sort of," she pulled over the stool she usually sat in and climbed up into it, "I'm Rachel, by the way."

"Jeremiah," he gave, "How do you know Blaine?"

"Mutual friend. You?"

"Before he switched to Dalton we went to the same high school."

The cogs in her mind _click-click-click_ed away, "You said something about your brother?"

"Before high school I only really knew him as one of James's best friends."

"James and Jeremiah, huh?" she smiled.

"Jonathan, Jeremiah, and James. Our parents thought they were being cute given our last name. It was an accident that James ended up being the baby of the family, though he is aiming to become a professor, so I guess it all works out."

She thought for a moment before she realized what he was saying, "Please tell me your last name isn't Moriarty."

"You actually got the reference. Now I'm scared."

"I had a lot of free time as a kid," she admitted, and _don't tell him about everything. Don't tell him about the everything and the nothing because no one should have to handle what goes on in your head_, "So was Blaine the Sherlock to your brother's Professor?"

He shook his head, "Blaine was Watson. Believe it or not, there was actually a girl named Holmes involved in their various adventures."

"Are you serious?" Rachel asked, and this time, she couldn't restrain the silly little laugh that escaped. That—that was pretty special. It sounded like they'd been close.

"Yeah, I've actually been trying to get ahold of them for some time now. Do you talk to Blaine any?"

"Not really. But that mutual friend I mentioned, he does."

"Do you think you could pass on a message for me? I'd really like to see them now that they're speaking to each other again. James said something about Blaine finally coming to terms with stuff and is apparently now dating Holmes. I mean, I'm not surprised. Even as a little kid Blaine gave off vibes that said 'pansexual' more than-hey, are you okay?"

No, she was not okay. No, no, _no, she was not okay, she was obsessing_ and _could he move, she needed to think_ and _I need to clean to think_ and _you left hand prints on my perfect shining counter-top why'd you do that it was to be mean, wasn't it—_

But Rachel shook her head, and said none of that.

"I'm fine. I promise to talk to Kurt about telling Blaine you'd like to see him."

He smiled at her, and Rachel nodded a little mechanically. She spoke, and the words came out, halting and shaking and _wrong_. "I—um, I need to go—clean. I'll be—right back."

He seemed concerned, but Rachel didn't have the time to compute that. She waved a little as she watched him turn to leave, and locked the shop's front door behind him. And then she rushed to the back room, fingers shaking, and barricaded herself in the bathroom with a week's worth of cleaning supplies.

As she wiped the mirror, she thought her way through the conversation.

_Blaine is dating someone who is not Kurt who is going to get hurt ohmygod what do I do this is going to be ridiculously painful ohmygod **why me** who do I even tell_?

Rachel took a deep breath of air in through her nose, and went back to wiping the mirror. _Not Mercedes. She'd just go on a rant and try to kill people. Obviously not Kurt. Finn—no, not even going there. I don't know Sam well enough, and Santana is just—no. Just no. Not Quinn, she despises me, and definitely not Puck because he'd just laugh. Not Lauren, she scares me, and not Mike, I don't know—_

And then the answer came, as she was scrubbing the floor tiles.

_Tina_.

How she'd missed the quiet girl was a mystery. Tina was likely the only girl (only person, really) that might have actually considered Rachel a friend.

She was hyperventilating, she was sure.

She listened to the dial tone twice before she managed to dial Tina's number.

"_Hello?_"

Rachel bit her lip. "Hi, Tina. It's, um, it's Rachel. Can we—talk?"

* * *

She was halfway through episode 24 of _Ouran_ when she got the call. She had no idea why Rachel would be calling her at 9 AM on a Saturday, nor did she particularly care to know why. She almost didn't answer the call, the temptation to spend her day shipping Tamaki and Kyouya (and eventually John and Sherlock because BBC's new series was just _gorgeous _and so fucking brilliant and oh the day so needed a good dose of _Doctor Who_ geekery). She had no plans beyond her couch, her day filled with geekgasms, Nutella, and not changing out of her pajamas. Those plans did not include talking to anyone who was not named Mike.

She really should call him.

In the meantime, though, there was Rachel to deal with. She didn't like it, but Rachel _never_ called her and that she was likely meant that there was some kind of emergency. Tina might have been apathetic and looking forward to her day of geek, but her conscience was deafening.

She sighed and answered the phone, "Hello?"

"_Hi, Tina. It's, um, it's Rachel. Can we-talk?"_

_"_Okay?" She wasn't entirely sure of this. Rachel didn't talk to anyone who wasn't Kurt, Mercedes, Finn-okay, not so much on that last one. Not since last year and the Breakup From Hell.

"_Look, I just—found something out, and I need to—rationalize. Are you doing anything today? If you are, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, and you can ignore me, but..._"

She twitched, just a little, "You're rambling."

"_Oh, um. Right. Okay. So. I just heard that—you remember Blaine, right? Kurt's—yeah, him. Well, I just talked to..._someone _who said that Blaine was dating someone who wasn't Kurt and I'm pretty sure I'm having a panic attack._"

Yeah, she was definitely twitching. She did _not_ need this shit. Couldn't Rachel have taken this to Mercedes or someone Kurt actually spoke to/acknowledged the existence of? Well, no, now that she thought about it, she could imagine what Rachel's line of thinking was. Kurt getting hurt would lead to Mercedes being homicidal. Everyone else either hated or avoided Rachel and so Tina was the neutral party.

Like always.

She sighed again, "Breathe, Rachel, breathe."

"_Right. Breathe. Breathing. Breathing. Sort of breathing._"

Tina pinched the bridge of her nose, a sense of tragedy setting in as she eyed the stack of DVDs on top of the television. She was the neutral one, the calm one. She hadn't asked for that designation and yet she had it, which meant Rachel's current freak-out was her responsibility.

Well, fuck. It looked like she was going to have to get a shower and leave the house after all.

"Okay, look, just cool your tits. Do you know where Addy's is?"

"_Yes, I'm two blocks from there._"

She nodded to herself, standing up and holding the phone between her ear and shoulder as she gathered up her Nutella and turned off the television, "Good. Go there, get a giant cup of caffeine and some chocolate. I'll be there in about thirty minutes and then we can talk. Sound good?"

She could hear Rachel's nervous laughter, "_Caffeine? No, I can't have caffeine, it'll—chocolate will be great. I'll be okay. Thanks Tine. You don't have to come._"

Tina nearly facepalmed. She chose to ignore the nickname and focus on the caffeine issue. A part of her wasn't surprised by the little diva's inability to consume it. Rachel Barry had redefined the words "perky" and "hyperactive" in the collective vocabulary of New Directions. As she thought about it, the more she realized that Rachel plus caffeine was very like a Very Bad Idea.

"Rachel, shut up. If you can't have caffeine, then make it a shit-ton of chocolate. I will be there in fifteen minutes and we are going to talk. Understand?" She put her Nutella away and started walking towards the bathroom.

"_Oh. Okay._"

She shut the door, resisting the urge to snap at Rachel. The girl had chosen to call her and she was sounding _defeated_ when she agreed to meet up with her to talk? She knew Rachel had some issues. Anyone who had ever been within fifty feet of Rachel knew that. Tina, as a general rule, only liked seriously fucked up people when they were fictional and existed only for her entertainment. Dealing with Issues in real life was generally very painful because then feelings got involved and made everything messy.

"Okay, then. I'll see you in a bit," she replied, "Bye."

"_Yeah. Bye._"

Someone was going to have to talk to that girl and explain the proper treatment of not-friends who were doing things that normally only friends would do. She showered quickly and dressed even faster, tying her hair back with a pencil while it was still dripping wet. She'd told Rachel she'd be at Addy's in fifteen minutes and dammit, she was going to be there in fifteen minutes. That was the new plan: talk to Rachel, go to Mike's, waste the day away in bliss.

Fifteen minutes later, as promised, she walked into Addy's. It wasn't hard to find Rachel in the cafe, and when she did see her, she made a beeline for the counter.

"Hi, the largest, strongest coffee you have and something very chocolatey to eat."

The barista gave her a strange look, but gave her what she ordered. It took a total of three minutes and so at seventeen minutes after she promised Rachel to meet her at the cafe, Tina took the seat across from Rachel.

"Okay, now start from the beginning," she ordered. Then she took a closer look. Rachel didn't look like Rachel, almost. She hadn't been joking about the panic attack, then. The poor girl was shaking and looked like she was on the verge of a second attack. Tina reached across the table and placed her hand on Rachel's wrist.

Rachel took a deep, shuddering breath, "So I was... You know I'm working at Blank Slate, right? Well, I was watching the shop, and this—guy came in. I—don't know who he is, but I've seen him a few times, and he's fairly attractive, and so I was talking to him about—well, a lot of things. Music and everything. Just life."

Tina nodded, "And?"

"And he—he somehow mentioned... Blaine. Like, Blaine-as-in-Kurt's-Blaine. Blaine, as in Blaine-who-is-apparently-dating-a-girl-Blaine."

She paused, thankful that her coffee was on its way to her mouth and not actually there, "I'm sorry, what?"

"That's what he—his name is Jeremiah—that's what he said. He said that—that Blaine was dating some girl."

...that was _not_ what she had been expecting.

"Are you sure that's what he said? I thought Blaine was gay and very open and proud about that fact."

Rachel pulled away from her, motioning with her hands, "There was something about Blaine's pansexuality and Jeremiah's brother, James, and this girl, but he didn't say her name except that her last name was Holmes and that—that Blaine was Watson."

Tina sat in silence for a moment before counted off on her fingers, "One: you're lucky I know Santana or I'd be asking what 'pansexual' is. Two: what the fuck did you just say?"

"That's when the panic attack hit."

"Right," she nodded, "Okay, can we rewind this conversation because I'm pretty sure you just made a _Sherlock_ reference that I didn't completely understand."

Rachel started flapping her arms in what, to Tina, looked like a bad imitation of Angry Birds. Her second thought was that Rachel was genuinely freaking out about this and need to _calm down_.

"Right, sorry, I forgot. Jeremiah said that his last name was Moriarty. His youngest brother is _James_. This girl is _Holmes_, and Blaine was—Blaine was Watson."

Tina fought the urge to smile at the oh-so-perfect alignment there (because, really? Moriarty/Sherlock/Watson was the _only_ way to ship the new series, even if she was eagerly awaiting the arrival of Irene Adler in the hopefully upcoming episodes). She needed to focus on the reality of what Rachel was saying. Assuming the dynamics between the trio were the same as their fictional associations, then it was only natural that Watson and Sherlock would end up together. That Sherlock just happened to be female and Watson proudly gay...

Well, that was going to cause some problems.

"Okay, I think I understand. So what are you going to do about Kurt?"

The look of dread was almost comical, "I have _no idea_."

"Have you thought about calling him?"

Rachel didn't take that suggestion too well, she realized belatedly, "But I—no! How on earth could I ever even approach that subject? I—Tina, look at me. I can barely keep my head when I'm talking to _you_, and we've known each other... a while, right? Blaine's almost a stranger, and I just... I don't think it would turn out at all well."

"I meant calling Kurt," she took a big drink of her coffee, flinching slightly at the bitterness.

Rachel sank in her seat, "It would kill him."

"But he needs to know."

"How would you tell him, then."

Tina thought for a moment before blanching, "That's a very good question."

She didn't really know Kurt all that well. They rarely, if ever, interacted with one another. She knew from watching him swoon over Finn that he fell hard when it came to guys he liked. If Blaine were the one who made him feel the way she felt with Mike, then everything was doomed. It would give them a better shot at finally beating Dalton at Nationals if their new lead was heartbroken, but Kurt was still very much one of them and-

_Fuck_.

"Then what about Mercedes?" she suggested, quietly sipping her coffee.

"She'd kill me."

"No, she wouldn't," she reasoned, "Does she even like this Blaine?"

"Yes, she would," Rachel argued, "And I don't know—I don't think so, but I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"She... well, sometimes she sneers when Kurt mentions him. It's only happened a few times that I know of, but I'm pretty sure she grits her teeth whenever he's mentioned... But how would I tell _her_?"

Tina got what Rachel was trying to say. Mercedes was terrifying when pissed off and this was bound to do the trick.

She took a deep breath and put on her best Cheerio face, "'Hi, Mercedes, a friend of Blaine's just told me that Blaine is dating a girl and not Kurt. Happy killing!'"

Rachel looked like Tina had just told her that there was no more Nutella, "_You_ tell her, then! I could—I could never say _that_, Tina! I nearly had another panic attack just trying to get the whole story out to you! And I—I spent half an hour cleaning before I called, because it took me that long to sort of get myself calm. I would just end up—it probably wouldn't be pretty."

"And if I do tell her?" she reasoned, "She's going to want to know how I heard about this."

"Then... then you can tell her to talk to me. But I'm—I'm bad at this kind of thing," Rachel mumbled.

"I can tell."

The other girl looked like she was about to cry, "Thanks."

Tina cringed, "Sorry?"

"I'm bad at friendships. I know that. I don't need it rubbed in my face," she really was starting to cry, Tina saw.

"Fuck," she swore, "Look, Rachel, I really am sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

Her mind was racing for a solution. She didn't particularly like Rachel, but she didn't like the idea of making the girl cry and feel like shit. She was well aware of the fact that Rachel had no friends.

"No, it's okay. I know you didn't. Sometimes I just—yeah, don't worry about it."

Tina was screwed.

"Look, I promise to talk to Mercedes. Why don't you go back to your job in the meantime? I'll call you sometime tonight so we can maybe make some plans to hang out?"

A part of her really did want Rachel to agree, though she knew it was highly improbable. Rachel knew they weren't friends just as well as Tina did.

"I'll go back to work," Rachel smiled weakly, "But, you know, it's okay. I'll be okay."

It was a pathetic end to a pathetic conversation and Tina groaned audibly when Rachel walked out the door of the cafe. She sighed, taking out her cellphone and finding the number in her contacts list.

It was answered on the third ring and she greeted, "Hi, Mercedes. Can we talk?"

"_Hey babe. Sup?_"

Tina grimaced. Mercedes sounded so happy and here Tina was, little ball of darkness ready to kickstart the hatefest.

"The shit's hit the fan and it's a pretty spectacular mess," she explained.

She could hear Mercedes's hesitation, "_Oh? Who, what when where, how, and why?"_

"Rachel got to talking with a friend of Blaine's at her job."

The pause was more violent in it's silence this time, she noted with a chill.

"_Talk to me_."

Tina shivered. Mercedes sounded _dangerous_. This was-this wasn't good. On any level. If Rachel was right (and she thought she was because she'd never heard Mercedes to from curious to assassin!bitch so quickly before) then Mercedes already really hated this guy and what Tina had to tell her would only add gas to the fire.

She could draw it out and explain it with all the details Rachel gave her...

"_Tina. Talk._"

Short and sweet it was.

"Apparently Blaine's got a girlfriend."

There was a long pause, "_What?_"

Tina sighed, "Old friend of Blaine's told Rachel that Blaine's pansexual and has a girlfriend. Apparently the girl's name is Holmes. She wants to tell Kurt but doesn't want to destroy him. She's afraid of you, so I'm the one who got to make this call. Rachel, that is. She's the one that wants to tell Kurt."

"_Oi. That's a bother,_" Mercedes snapped,_ "Rachel should know better, she knows how much I dislike that moron. But this... doesn't make sense. Kurt talked to that moron yesterday, he said. But... hm. I dunno. I'll have to talk to him. Thanks, Tina, I owe you one_."

Tina smiled weakly, "You're very welcome Mercedes. Happy hunting."

"_Thanks, darling. You hunt some on your own, yeah?_"

"I'll try. I'm a little out of the loop on this, though."

"_Just keep Rachel from jumping off a cliff_."

Tina nodded, "That I can do. Talk to you later."

"_Aight. Love you, byeeeeee!_"

Tina closed her phone, letting her head fall to the table for a moment. She swore under her breath for a few minutes, cursing boys and girls and friends and gossip before she sat up, drank her coffee and left. She was going to spend the rest of her day curled up in bed and she sincerely hoped her boyfriend would be there with her.

* * *

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Extra thoughts:

**Sara loves spring flowers**: there is still snow where I am. THIS IS SO UNCOOL. Also, next chapter, Mike gets a personality!  
**Emily loves summer flowers**: it was summer-like weather when I was home and now I'm freezing in the north again. NOT COOL. Also, next chapter, Kurt appears!**  
**


	4. did you hear what rachel heard?

**disclaimer: **if we owned _glee_, mike/tina would be the central pairing, so clearly we don't own it.  
**dedication:** to sherlock, lazy days, sleepless nights, and warm weather.

* * *

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* * *

Mercedes breathed in angrily through her nose.

Seriously, what was this shit.

She had _told_ Kurt to expect something like this, but _noooooooo_, he just _wouldn't listen_, and now she was going to have to deal with it on her own. Mercedes huffed angrily again, and shoved off her bed. She was going to be doing damage control for fucking _weeks_.

Mercedes growled to herself.

She was going to stuff her weave down Blaine's fucking throat.

But first, she needed to talk to Kurt.

And to do that, she needed to calm down, drink a cup tea or eight , and _not_ barge into Kurt's house.

* * *

Sam was doing better at remembering how the human body worked, he thought as he closed the door behind the blonde boy. Kurt had never met someone so terrible at biology before he started tutoring Sam. It was a taxing job, trying to teach his former classmate, but it did pay well. Not as well as his next appointment, though (stupid rich kids were always the best).

He'd just caught sight of Sam's notebook on the table when he heard the doorbell ring. He sighed, picking up the notebook and walking towards the door, "Forget this?"

He stopped short. It wasn't Sam at his door. It was Mercedes and she looked—_fuck_. He'd seen this expression before. He knew that look too well and he knew that this was not going to end well.

"Mercedes, hi. Did you happen to see Sam on your way here? He left his notebook," he smiled, trying to distract her.

"We need to talk about your bitch of a boyfriend," she hissed.

_Right_, he thought. Of course she wouldn't let him direct the conversation. She was in kill-mode and it was...he sighed, "I don't have a boyfriend, Mercedes."

His mind was racing with ideas to end this conversation as quickly as possible. He had to get across town for his next tutoring appointment within the next forty-five minutes. An argument with Mercedes could take far longer and cause more damage than he needed. His mind needed to be clear to deal with that selfish, spoilt little rich girl.

"Oh please, you know exactly who I'm talking about. You're not an idiot, Kurt, I do _not_ want you to start acting like one _now_."

Kurt stepped aside, letting her into the house. He was home alone (Dad was at the garage, Carole was at work, Finn was somewhere) and so any screaming that was likely to happen could happen indoors where only he could suffer.

"Mercedes, I talked to Blaine yesterday. I know you hate him, but he couldn't have done something to piss you off in the span of twenty-four hours when he's been in Rhode Island since the month began," he explained, setting Sam's notebook on the sideboard before moving towards the kitchen. Maybe some tea would help to calm her down.

Mercedes stomped after him into the kitchen, "Oh, yes, apparently, he can. I learned something interesting today."

He held the kettle under the running water in the sink, "Oh? And what has he done since eight o'clock last night that has made you so murderous?"

She fumed, "That he's cheating on you. _Cheating_, Kurt, and I'm inclined to believe my source!"

He sighed, setting the kettle on the stove and turning it on to boil, "Mercedes, he can't be cheating on me if we aren't dating."

Not that he wanted it to be that way. He wanted to date Blaine, much to Mercedes's chagrin. Blaine was the first major crush he had who was actually gay and he was perf—well, no, he wasn't. Blaine was very human and he did have his faults. Big, massive, irritating faults that led to a lot of frustration, but that's what love was, right? It was learning to see someone flawed as perfect, even while acknowledging the flaws. Things just didn't progress the way he wanted them to but there was still time. Kurt was still in high school and Blaine was a student at Brown. Kurt didn't mind the distance, but Blaine did.

They did things people who dated did, though that started to end around the time of the Rachel Incident. He'd never asked the older boy about that and he didn't like thinking about it because that was the first fight he and Mercedes had regarding his relationship with Blaine.

"Except you _are _dating! Excuse me, I've _watched_ you moon over him, and that shit ain't okay! God, Kurt, who are you _kidding_?"

"Except we aren't!" he snapped, glaring over his shoulder, "I want to, you know I do. Hell, I've even asked him out but it's always the same 'the timing isn't right' or 'ask me again, I'm too busy right now' bullshit. Thank you, I am very aware of what our relationship is like. Right now, everything's okay. He's at college; it's not surprising he'd meet someone there."

The words left a bitter taste on his tongue. He bit his lip, reaching up into a cabinet for the pretty blue Depression Glass teacups he knew she loved. He pulled the first one out and set it on the counter, reaching up for the second.

"But a _girl_, Kurt? A _girl_?"

The teacup fell down, smashing onto the counter. For a moment, there was no sound until the kettle started to screech. He stared down at the fragments of the teacup, mind not processing what she'd said.

That-that wasn't...it couldn't...

"And you wonder why I hate him," she murmured.

Something in him twitched. He reached over and turned off the stove before reaching up for another teacup, this one pink Depression glass. He placed teabags in both and poured the hot water over them before he spoke, "Mercedes, I think you must be confusing him with someone else."

"Are you seriously not believing me, Kurt?"

"You just told me a gay guy has a girlfriend," he tried to keep his voice calm and not angry, "Do you not realize how crazy you sound?"

She sighed, "Because he's not gay, like I told you _months_ ago!"

"Remember what happened with Rachel?" he smiled, "He's gay, hun. End of discussion. Now, do you want cream or sugar with your tea?"

He pulled out the yellow glass sugar bowl and found a couple of spoons for them to use before fetching the cream. Behind him, he could hear her rolling her eyes as she said, "No, he's _not_ gay. I talked to Rachel, and she did a _very_ good job of explaining the situation to me."

"Since when has Rachel Berry ever been a trustworthy source when it comes to men she's attracted to?" he sighed, taking the teabags out and tossing them in the trash. He took the cream and sugar and placed them on the table in front of Mercedes before going back for the tea and spoons.

"Because that bitch can't lie for shit. She's worse than you are," she snapped.

He closed his eyes, counting backwards from ten as he set the tea down, "Mercedes, explain to me how Rachel learned anything about a man she hasn't spoken to in nearly a year."

She ignored her tea, "From his friend's brother, who asked to pass the message along that he'd like to see him."

"Oh god, a grapevine?" he grimaced at the memories of the McKinley grapevine, "Mercedes, you know how terrible those things are."

"She didn't even want to tell me. That's no grapevine," she responded.

"It's still a grapevine, hun. I'm sorry, but no, that's not how it works. Some random friend's brother is not a reputable source."

"You just can't believe it, can you? Tell me, when was the last time you actually _saw_ Blaine?"

He paused, his tea halfway between the table and his mouth, "Mercedes, that doesn't matter."

Oh dear, he could _hear _the all-caps coming, could see it in her eyes and in the way her shoulders seemed to tense.

He was going to be late for that appointment.

"Doesn't matter? _Doesn't matter_? Who are you _kidding_, Kurt David Hummel! OF COURSE IT MATTERS. HE DOESN'T CONSIDER YOU ANYTHING EXCEPT A FRIEND-FOR GOD'S SAKE, WHAT DO YOU EVEN ACTUALLY _KNOW_ ABOUT HIM? YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE HE WENT TO SCHOOL, YOU DON'T KNOW WHO HE GREW UP WITH, YOU DON'T KNOW WHO HIS FAMILY IS, YOU DON'T KNOW _ANYTHING ABOUT HIM_. HOW CAN YOU CALL THAT A RELATIONSHIP, KURT? HOW CAN YOU CALL THAT _ANYTHING_?"

"Okay, you just made my point for me," he answered weakly, "Though, you could have been a little less specific about it."

She was beyond pissed off, he realized belatedly, because she was sucking long, angry breaths into her lungs, nostrils flaring. "Do you _want_ me to go on? Because I _could_, Kurt. _I could_."

"Not really, Mercedes, but clearly you have something you need to say."

It wasn't the brightest idea, but he would rather end this then and there. He glanced at the clock. He sighed, watching Mercedes fume. Quietly, he pulled his phone out of his pocket, finding the girl's number and texting her to tell her that he was going to be a little late. It wasn't like the kid was going to fail chemistry solely because he was late once. She was, after all, already failing. He got the response that that was okay fairly quickly, an unsurprising result given that she was never without her phone.

As for Mercedes, he was well aware of what she was saying. He didn't know that much about Blaine, though Blaine knew quite a bit about him. It didn't really bother him, to be honest. Kurt was used to people knowing a lot about him. Blaine was coming from a very different background. It made sense that he'd be reserved around everyone, including the only classmate he spent any time outside of school with.

"HE DOESN'T LOVE YOU. HE NEVER _WILL_ LOVE YOU. AND BY _GOD_, KURT, YOU DON'T LET YOURSELF _SEE_ THAT!"

"You don't know that, Mercedes. So some guy randomly says Blaine has a girlfriend. Don't you think I would have heard about that? Something like that just doesn't randomly happen," he answered, setting down the teacup and pushing it away.

She just shook her head, raising her hands and standing up, "I'm done with this. See this? This is me washing my hands of this situation. When he breaks your heart—and he _will _do it—don't come crying to me."

He reached out and grabbed her wrist before she could leave, "No, you aren't. You still have given me no proof to believe this stupidity. How many times do I have to tell you that he's gay before you get it? There is no girl, Mercedes and he's not going to hurt me the way you think he is. Yeah, we might not end up together, but he's not some evil bastard like you think he is."

She shook him off, "Go ahead, then. Be my guest! Just keep blinding yourself. I don't care anymore."

She was at the door of the kitchen when he responded, "You've changed."

"No, Kurt, I haven't. I'm still realistic, loud, and larger than life. You're the one who's changed, and I thought you were better than that," she just shook her head and continued walking away.

He heard the front door open and close, leaving him alone in the house with two cups of cooling tea and the fragments of a broken Depression Glass teacup on the counter.

"Well, _fuck_."

* * *

Mercedes stomped her way out of Kurt's house, still seething.

That fight had been a long time coming, but—ugh.

Mercedes whipped out her phone, and hit speed dial 2.

"Yo. I'm heading over. That okay?"

"_Um, sure._"

"Good. See you in ten."

She snapped her phone closed, teeth clenched together. Seriously, what was Kurt _thinking_?

_Okay, calm Mercedes, calm,_ she thought to herself as she drove. Kurt was being a blind, def, dumb, _stupid_ idiot (did all people in love do that? If they did, Mercedes didn't want to deal with it, because it was ridiculous and _not_ a good time), but there was very little she could do at this point.

She sighed, and leveled off the gas pedal just as Quinn's house came into sight.

Good.

Time to rant.

* * *

Mercedes was good for her mental health, she decided. Mercedes was pissed off and that meant that it was either about Rachel or about Kurt. Rachel and Kurt were not Be-_her_.

Quinn felt queasy and looked around her kitchen for the giant mason jar filled with the candied ginger she'd made earlier in the day. She opened it up and popped one in her mouth, leaving the jar open. The nausea abated enough for her to be confidant in dealing with a scarily observant friend who was already very pissed off.

Assuming, of course, that Mercedes didn't see the mess of baked goods and homemade candies scattered about her kitchen. Or the knitting in the basket by the table. Or the...she was screwed. She really did need to find something better to do with her time when she was stressed out. Like cleaning or gardening or making someone cry.

She sighed heavily, looking around for something Mercedes might like before deciding on hot chocolate. Hot chocolate was good. It was comforting, warm, sweet, and it reminded her of childhood (and she liked reminders of childhood, most days, because they reminded her of days when the world wasn't on it's fucking head).

She was whisking the cocoa powder into the milk with more ferocity than was probably necessary when she heard the doorbell. She called out through the empty house (her mother was gone, talking to lawyers about the thing Quinn didn't want to think about and needed Mercedes to distract her from), "It's unlocked!"

The door slammed open and shut, causing Quinn to pause briefly. When Mercedes stalked into the kitchen, muttering darkly under her breath, she quickly eliminated Rachel from the potential problems.

This had to do with Kurt.

"He's against logic, I swear!"

Quinn sighed. Yep, this was Kurt and it had Blaine written all over it.

"There are ginger snaps on the table. I'll be done with the hot chocolate in a bit. Start talking," she sighed, returning to the hot chocolate.

"Kurt's an idiot, Rachel is too innocent for her own good, and Tina is the only sane one left."

"What happened?"

"Blaine. Blaine happened."

The whisking slowed slightly, "Yes, sweetie, I know. I've heard the stories and they scream cheater. Has he finally proven us right?"

Mercedes growled, "'Course. With a _girl,_ no less."

She fumbled the whisk, turning around to face Mercedes, "Excuse me?"

"Mmmhmm."

Okay, not computing. Blaine plus girl was nonsense. It was the Kurt rumour all over again.

"Explain. In detail. Now."

"Blaine's dating some bitch. I hate to say grapevine, but you know Rach. She don't talk shit," Mercedes answered, taking a gingersnap.

Quinn turned around, turning off the hot chocolate and setting the whisk aside before leaning against the counter, "What do you know about the girl?"

"Her name's Holmes or som'in. Dunno," she shrugged.

Quinn scowled, "Don't talk with your mouth full. Surely you know something else. How long has this been going on? How did she and Blaine meet?"

"Didn't your mamma teach you manners?" Mercedes taunted, "Bad Quinn, don't tell the black girl what to do. Rachel said they grew up together."

She rolled her eyes, "Oh? So she's from Lima? And bitch, my house, my rules."

"From the rich-kids-go-lightly area, if Blaine is any indication," Mercedes shrugged, "I repeat: bad Quinn, don't tell the black girl what to do!"

"She didn't go to McKinley or to Dalton's sister school," Quinn mused, "I know all the girls from that year and ours at both and there's no Holmes in either. Do you want me to put out feelers to find out where she went?"

"You bet I do!" she answered.

"How much information do you want?" she asked. This was good. This was very good. This was distracting in a healthy way. It had nothing to do with her and her fucked up life and it was going to be good for Mercedes and hopefully Kurt.

"As much as you can get me."

"Talk to me at the end of the we-" she paused, remembering what was on the schedule for her week, "Two weeks. Talk to me in two weeks."

"You are the best," Mercedes smiled.

She found mugs for the hot chocolate, pouring it in as she talked, "So what are you going to do about Blaine?"

"Punch him in the nuts," she deadpanned.

Quinn smiled, carrying both mugs over to the table, "Oh good, do avoid the face. He might be a lying, cheating bastard, but he is pretty."

Mercedes snatched her mug away, glaring, "No, after he falls over, I'm gonna curbstomp him."

"Damn, that's a waste."

"If this is true, tell me he doesn't deserve it."

She looked at Mercedes over the top of her cup, "Honey, I slept with Puck while dating Finn and then kissed Finn while dating Sam. If you're looking for dating morality, I'm not the person to talk to."

"And this is Kurt we're talking about. Fragile, sweet Kurt."

Quinn thought for a moment, "Okay, you've got a point. Kill him."

Mercedes talked to her over the top of her own mug, "Mmm, that's what I thought."

"What about the girl?"

She shook her head, "Not my department. I think Kurt might have some things to say to her, though."

Quinn frowned, "Then what are you going to do with the information I collect?"

"Let Kurt have it," she finally answered, taking another sip of her hot chocolate.

"This is Kurt, Mercedes. How likely is he to use this information? Will he even accept it?"

She remembered Kurt very well. He was not like her or Santana or Mercedes or even Rachel. He wasn't the revenge type. He was the passive aggressive type but what was he going to do against this girl? He hadn't done anything against Rachel when the Finn Fiasco happened in sophomore year. That boy just wasn't the vicious type, not against people in the dating arena. If she had to guess, she'd say he had intimacy issues that made letting go easier than fighting.

"He will," Mercedes nodded, "I hope?"

She sighed, "Oh, sweetie. I hope you know what you're asking for."

"Pffft. When do I not?"

Quinn just rolled her eyes, "Okay, back up and explain everything that has happened today in as much detail as possible. When that boy doesn't do something with this information, I want to have a plan in motion to deal with the girl. If she's a rich kid, I don't think she's going to take too kindly to you beating the crap out of her boy-toy."

Mercedes opened her mouth to start speaking, when she realized that something was wrong. She stopped, and eyed Quinn, "...What's eating you?"

"What do you mean?" Quinn asked.

But Mercedes could see that she was avoiding her gaze, and that was all the confirmation she needed. Quinn have never been good at hiding things; she'd always looked away when she had something to hide. Mercedes had learned that within two weeks of being Quinn's close friend, "Something's eating you. What is it?"

Quinn sighed, "It's our last semester of high school, Mercy. Take a guess."

Mercedes had never understood why Quinn called her Mercy. It was a nickname that only her father had been allowed to use, but Quinn dropped it like it was something everyone was used to.

"Please, Q, I know you better than that," Mercedes replied, flat.

"Mercedes, really. School has been a bit stressful, that's all."

And mimicry was what Mercedes was good at, "Quinn, really. You look like you're about to vomit. That is not school stress."

Quinn rolled her eyes, "Stress causes nausea. Now pass me the candied ginger. It's in the open jar behind you."

Mercedes was also good at putting two and two together, and she said "...Oh no. No, are you _serious_? You made _candied ginger_? Okay, something is up. Quinn, tell me. Now."

Candied ginger meant Puck, and Puck meant Beth.

Mercedes cringed at the thought of saying The Baby's name aloud.

"I've just been feeling a little under the weather lately. That's all," Quinn replied, looking tired.

That was such a lie.

"...Under the weather. And two weeks. Quinn. Stop lying to me. You haven't made candied ginger since before—since before you know what," Mercedes growled, stumbling over the last words, because she still couldn't say _since before you had Beth_.

"Really, Mercy, it's nothing," Quinn paused, and took a slow breath, "I just happen to like candied ginger."

Mercedes put her hands on her hips, and glared with all her not-inconsiderable might, "It is not nothing! The only reason you made it in the first place was because Puck likes it!"

Quinn just made a face and pushed the candy away, "Weren't we just talking about Blaine apparently fucking a girl behind Kurt's back?"

"Yes, and now we're talking about the fact that you never take two weeks to find information and the fact that you made candied ginger when you didn't even _like_ it before you got pregnant."

They were getting close to it now, Mercedes thought. The root of the problem—the root of _all_ Quinn's problems.

"Mercedes!" Quinn gasped, scandalized.

"Don't give me that look. You know it's true."

"Yes, but I asked you not to talk about that!"

There they were, "Yes, you did, and it's high time _someone_ pushed you about it. What happened, Quinn? Candied ginger is your comfort food. Talk to me!"

"It's nothing. Can we go back to talking about Kurt and not about—not about this?"

"No, we can't."

"Please, don't. Let's talk about anything else. I'll even talk about what I found out about Blaine when I put out feelers after the Rachel Incident last year," Quinn whispered. Mercedes could see she was nearly crying and shaking like a leaf.

A sigh escaped her, because Quinn was kind of her best friend, and Mercedes was not heartless. She opened her arms, and said, "Quinn, come here."

"Mercedes, really. This isn't necessary."

"Yes, it is."

"Really, just stop!" And then Quinn really was crying, tears dripping down her cheekbones in shining trails.

"No," Mercedes replied, jutting her chin out. She was going to dig her heels in an _not let this go_ because Quinn needed to face whatever it was that was eating at her, and she couldn't do that if she was just ignoring whatever it was (and Quinn was _just so good_ at ignoring things, Mercedes had noted).

"…"

Another sigh escaped Mercedes, "Quinn. It's okay. I'm not going anywhere. You can trust me. You know that."

Quinn shook her head, violent and hurting, "Not this time, Mercy. Not about this."

"Yes, Quinn, about this. It always comes back to this. It always comes back to Puck. What did he do?"

(That was a lie—it always came back to Beth, but unless Quinn forced Mercedes to say it, she wasn't going to.)

"Nothing."

Mercedes shoulder's slumped. So Quinn was going to force it out of her, then, "...I'd wish you tell me. I can't make it better if I don't know what it is."

"This isn't like other things."

"Then what is it like?"

"Bad. Really, really messed up."

"Is it Beth?"

Quinn's daughter's name hung in the air between them. It was the first time either of them had spoken it in a very, very long time—it was the first time _anyone_ had spoken that name, ever. Except maybe Puck when he was drunk, but sober, no one would touch that name, that song; there was something beautifully depressing about it, something sacred.

"…Is it really that obvious?"

"Quinn. Really."

"…The adoption is invalid."

"...Oh my," Mercedes breathed.

"Someone called my mom and told her she needed to contact someone about it and so she did and found out that apparently, the adoption violates a couple of laws. One is that it had to take place through an agency or a court of law or some other shit like that and the other is that, as a newborn, the adoption couldn't take place until at least seventy-two hours after birth."

Quinn was shaking, and Mercedes had nothing to say.

"Three days, Mercy. I could have had three days with her."

"You wouldn't have given her up if you'd had three days with her, Quinn," Mercedes told her softly.

"I know. Trust me, I know," Quinn murmured in reply, biting her lip, "And that hurts more."

She just broke down crying. Mercedes gathered Quinn up, and began to croon, "Let it out, honey. Just let it out."

"I didn't have to lose her. I could have kept her; I could have avoided making this stupid mistake. _I didn't have to lose her_."

And Quinn was sobbing, and Mercedes continued to croon, to keep the blonde woman-almost-girl calm. "Shhh, shhh, I know, I know, it's okay, it's okay, it's going to be okay…"

Mercedes hummed lullabies and let Quinn cry, because it was something they both needed.

* * *

He tried not to think about Blaine on his way towards Grace Avenue. It was hard, though, given that Blaine grew up in that white Victorian house with the wisteria along the walk just a block away from his destination.

Right, bad train of thought, Kurt.

(But still! A _girl_? That was what Mercedes was going to try and do this time because that was just adajgoiadsdgaskjgdslkf.)

He was fairly certain he was in no condition to help anyone with thinking-related matters. His brain was broken from the ridiculous nature of recent accusations. Mercedes had tried something like this once before after the Rachel Incident. And the Jeremiah Disaster. And that half-assed rejection post-Jeremiah. And that one incident involving _Blackbird_ that he never told Mercedes about. And-okay, fine. So Blaine had a history of jerking him around but that was in the past.

Chemistry. He needed to think about chemistry. The elements and whatnot and not the chemistry he supposedly had with-

No. He had chemistry with Blaine. They were both into the same things and into the same gender. It worked out. And that _Blackbird_ incident...

He needed to go home and hibernate until high school was a long forgotten memory, not tutor some little rich girl in a subject she seemed to be incapable of learning.

"You look like you were just dragged through hell," Milly responded when she opened the door for him.

He just glared at the girl before walking past her and into the grand Grace Avenue house. They normally worked in her room because he wasn't considered a scandal by her father the way other boys were. Milly bounded ahead of him until they reached her room, thankfully staying quiet the entire time.

"Did you finish your homework?" he asked.

She nodded, taking a notebook from her bed and handing it to him. He took a seat at her desk with the textbook and started looking it over for problems to see what he needed to focus on.

"Kurt, are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," he responded, mumbling under his breath, "And I would be great if Mercedes would stop this vendetta against Blaine."

"Sorry, what?"

"Nothing," he answered, focusing on the tiny, loopy handwriting of her attempt to explain the difference between Alkali metals and Alkaline Earth metals.

She hummed, "No, I'm pretty sure I heard you say the name Blaine."

"Yeah, I did. It doesn't matter," he needed this conversation to go in a very different direction, "Milly, you do know that Helium is one of the Noble Gases, not an Alkali, don't you?"

"Oh, but I thought Helium was the-Helium's number two, isn't it?" she asked. When he nodded, she smiled nervously, "Right, I might have confused it with that other one?"

"Hydrogen?"

"Right, that one!" she grinned, "And you go to Dalton right?"

"Yeah, I do. Why?"

"Well, if you go to Dalton and you have a friend named Blaine, then you must be talking about Blaine Anderson."

He paused for a moment, about to ask her how she knew that before he remembered that she lived just a block away from Blaine. It was only natural for her to know him. Kurt grimaced slightly as he caught another glaring error on her homework, absentmindedly answering her, "Yeah, that's him."

"I was just wondering. I used to go to school with him," she babbled, "He was kind of legendary when we were at Lestrade Academy. I couldn't wait to go to Baker Street with them, but then they split up halfway through their freshman year and since I'm two years younger, I only went to high school with Noelle and James."

"Who?" he asked. Those names were not familiar to him. Why would they be? Blaine _never_ talked about his past. Doing that was like talking about Beth in front of Quinn and/or Puck. It just wasn't done.

That didn't stop him from being curious.

Milly jumped up to sit on her bed, legs swinging, "Noelle Holmes and James Moriarty. The three of them were sometimes called the Sherlock Trio, but more often they were referred to as the Irregulars. They were famous as outcasts. They never really fit in anywhere in the real world. At Lestrade, they mostly stuck to each other and didn't venture outside of the small world they'd built together. At Baker Street, though, they started branching out. James joined the tennis team; he was captain before he graduated. Noelle joined the orchestra; she was first-chair violin. Blaine tried to start up a choir, but it never really got off the ground so he stuck with Speech and Debate."

"What happened to them?" that was the one thing he had always been curious about. Blaine didn't really talk about the abuse that led to him transferring to Dalton. What he was learning, though, contradicted it somewhat. If he had close friends who rarely left his side, then how did the abuse get so bad that he had to leave? If it were Kurt and he had friends like that, he would never have left McKinley.

She shrugged, "I don't know. I was still at Lestrade when it happened. One day, the Irregulars were okay, the next, they weren't speaking to each other. I live between the three of them. Blaine's down Grace at one end and James is in the brick house at the other end. Noelle's in that strange red Victorian down Mycroft Boulevard, which is the road running along that side of my yard. They used to gather beneath the buckeye tree across the street and then go off to wherever it was they spent their time. I haven't seen them there since Blaine left Baker Street, though."

He normally hated gossips, but Milly was turning out to be useful. She was terrible at chemistry, but she knew this history he knew nothing of. There was so much she could tell him that he could use to break apart the silliness Mercedes insisted was the truth.

"Someone told me Blaine was dating a girl," he tried.

"Not surprised," she remarked, "He and Noelle spent a lot of time together without James. Even with James around, they still had this odd air. They were Watson and Sherlock."

"But he's gay," he asserted weakly.

Milly made a face before jumping off her bed, pulling a book off of a shelf and setting it on top of her chemistry book. She opened it to a page and pointed to a picture, "Anyone who really knew him knew that rumour was bogus. He's bi at the least. If you've ever heard him talk about love, it's painfully obvious that he's closer to not fitting any label than anything else."

"But what happened at Baker Street..."

"It's an intolerant place," she rolled her eyes, "And it doesn't like people who don't fit a known label. The Irregulars all defied labels, which is why they're so legendary. As for what happened with Blaine, are you really surprised? The guy was _fourteen_. Confused, yes. Knowing the absolute truth about himself, not likely. Show me a fourteen-year-old who knows who they are beyond a shadow of a doubt and I'll show you a fucking unicorn."

He scowled, looking at the photograph. It was undeniably a younger Blaine, his hair a little longer and dressed in an unfamiliar blue uniform. Sitting next to him was a pretty girl and behind them, a boy who looked rather bored. So these were the Irregulars? They looked happy. Blaine was smiling and so was the girl. Even though he looked bored, the other boy had the appearance of happiness as well.

"What is this?"

"The yearbook from their freshman year at Baker Street. Most of us who went to Lestrade with the Irregulars have it," she explained, "They were kind of celebrities among us, so we kind of went out of our way to get copies of the yearbook. Baker Street even decided to put Blaine in because he was one of the Irregulars, even though he didn't finish the school year there."

"Why all the attention?"

She laughed, "The Irregulars were strange and exotic. They never did anything like anyone else. No one really understood them, but we all knew one thing: that we wanted to be just like them. They were a guilty pleasure."

He nodded, eyes focused on the photograph, "Could I borrow this?"

"Sure, just be careful with it."

"Yeah," he responded absently.

This was it. It was just photographs, but it was, to him, the holy grail of information. He could finally show Mercedes that he _did_ know something about Blaine and maybe put this to rest.

Later that night, when he was in bed trying to sleep, he would remember Milly's words about Noelle Holmes. He had a place to start looking for answers regarding the idea that Blaine was dating a girl. That was a good thing.

He just couldn't shake the feeling that there was something true in the rumour.

* * *

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Extra thoughts:

**Sara should stop waiting for that guy to text her**: ffuuuuuu I THOUGHT HE WAS GOING TO GET A PERSONALITY THIS CHAPTER BUT NO. DAMN IT. anyway, please review! (read: don't fucking favourite and not leave a review. that shit ain't cool, bro.)**  
Emily has RC and needs to sleep**: wow, this did not go as planned. next chapter, mike/tina!


	5. did you hear about puck and quinn?

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
**dedication**: to. um. Emily's nagging, I guess. Without it, Sara (me) would never get anything done.

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* * *

Mike blinked sleepily against the ringing of his alarm clock. The disgruntled groan from the warm lump of flesh to his right made him grin.

He always liked waking up next to Tina.

"Morning, Squirt," he murmured, throwing an arm over her waist and tugging her closer to his chest. She growled into his chest; Mike knew he was hindering her morning routine of smashing her alarm clock silent, but he couldn't help it—Tina was so amusing when she was angry. Her pressed his lips to her forehead, and felt her quiet a little in his arms.

She grumbled, "It's morning already?"

"Shouldn't be, but it is," he told her.

"Dammit."

Mike chuckled a little, and shoved the covers off his legs. He stood up, naked save for boxers, and stretched, "We gotta get to school."

"I know, I know," Tina sighed. She had covered her eyes with her arm, and had she been anyone else, Mike was sure that she'd be groaning in pain, "How long until it's May?"

"Four month, two weeks, two days until we're done," Mike said, running his fingers through his hair. He knew that that was the correct amount of time. Counting down the days until the end of the year had always been a habit of Mike's, carried over from a childhood of summer freedom. It was something that was likely to never leave him, because summer was his favourite of all seasons. Summer was warm and simple, and Mike had always found that it suited him best.

Tina was still moaning her plight, "Can we just remove that 'four months' part?" she asked, "Or, you know, the 'four months, two weeks' part?

Mike just laughed, and reached down to pull her off the bed. "C'mon, squirt. Get up."

* * *

She was sitting on the counter, trying to think about everything and anything that wasn't related to the upcoming weekend. She knew she was in the worst place she could be if that was her aim. This was the place where she and he had the food fight, after all. As happy as those memories were, it was still a painful reminder of what had happened.

It was also the only place she could avoid Mercedes.

And Sam.

But mostly Mercedes.

She didn't like hurting Sam and she knew he was, but it was worse with Mercedes because Mercedes _knew_.

She took in a deep breath, covering her eyes with her hands in a way that allowed her to plug her ears with her fingers. Silent and dark, just the way she liked it. Bright and happy was just too much for her to deal with. It made her think of hazel eyes and smiles and laughs and nursery rhymes and lullabies...

(_Hush-a-bye, don't you cry, go to sleepy little baby. When you wake, you shall have cake, and all the pretty little horses._ She'd always been a fan of Holly Cole.)

She needed to calm down. She was getting too close to falling down that path again. She looked down at her skirt, pressing her hands against her thighs and wishing the marks she carried from that time would just disappear. She'd made that promise, after all. She wasn't going to turn her back on that. Even if she wanted nothing to do with that time and the time before it, it didn't change the fact that _he_ was still someone special and she would do her best to keep her word to him.

He'd been smart in the way he'd phrased that promise. He made it just as much about _her_ as it was about him. He knew how her mind worked, after all; knew she could betray him but never betray _her_.

(That was _such_ a lie. She could betray Finn, Sam, Mercedes, _everyone_, but never him. He was one of the two she could never, ever betray.

...

...

...

She still cared too much to do that.)

Her life was falling apart, just when she was starting to rebuild it after that time. She had Sam (or did she?) and she was doing well in school. She was surviving. She was looking forward to graduation, to college, to life. She was, after all, finally living again. Finally living for herself. She wasn't under her father's control anymore, nor was she bound by some...

But she was still bound, wasn't she? _She_ was coming back.

It was like watching a house of glass cards fall down. She'd spent so much time since sophomore year, just trying to rebuild. The entirety of the last school year was devoted to getting back on her feet. Now, in her final semester of high school, it was all falling apart.

"Thought I'd find you here."

She jumped, nearly falling off the counter. Turning around, she saw Puck standing at the door. He was the last person she wanted to see, especially given what was happening.

"Puck, what are you doing here?" she hoped she wasn't showing the bad because it was bad and he was just _going to make it worse_.

"Dunno," he shrugged, hands in his pockets, "What're _you_ doing here?"

She felt her normal coping mechanism (it was a nicer term than calling it what it was: being a complete bitch) kicking in and clipped, "None of your business."

"Sure. Just like those scars. Those aren't my business either, are they?" he spoke quietly, deliberately, slowly walking towards her as he did, "But I know about them. So what's fucking you now, Quinn?"

_Shit_. He saw. He sawhesawhesawhe...He _saw_.

How long had he been there for him to have seen her pressing her hands against those ugly marks? He was speaking slowly so she could understand. He always did that and it always pissed her off. Now, though, now it was just bad and unwanted and ugly and...

Breathe, Quinn. Breathing was good. Freaking out was not. Control must be maintained.

She sneered, "You're right. They aren't any of your business and _you_ are what's bothering me."

He was. She wouldn't have had...

No, she wouldn't think about it. She didn't want to cry anymore.

He stepped around the corner of the island, "Sure I am. But I'm not going anywhere, so you can stop your bitchin'."

She scowled, backing away from him, "Leave."

He just stepped closer, "Nah, not 'til you tell me what crawled up your cunt and died."

"Language!" she scolded. Her voice sounded like her grandmother's in her head. It was tempting to smile at it; it was the grandmother who thought brandy was a cure-all and that ice cream led to nightmares.

"Still not leaving."

She needed to get rid of him, but the only way she knew how to was to use his real name. He always reacted badly to it, save that one time. She wouldn't say it though, because of that one time. It was why he would never say her name and it was why she...

"Is there something you need?" she asked, a sour tone to her voice.

"Do I ever need anything?" he asked, finally stopping to lean against the counter.

She finally came to a stop herself on the other side of the island, "Other than psychiatric help?"

He laughed, "Oooh, _someone's_ touchy."

"You're something of an annoyance," she muttered, adjusting her white cardigan.

"C'mon," he said teasingly before turning grave, "Seriously. What's bugging you?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with," she snapped.

He shrugged again, making eye contact for the first time since they began talking, "Oh, I'm sure it's not. Nothing about my daughter, or anything, I'm sure."

Her heart wasn't functioning right. Her ears and brain couldn't be functioning right. He did not just say that. He couldn't have just said that. There was no way he could...

He did know, though. He had to. This concerned both of them and they would have contacted him to tell him what had been discovered.

No.

This couldn't be.

Him knowing just made it real and it couldn't be real because it was too painful. She was terrified and over the moon at the same time and that black hole from that time was swirling beneath her feet, just waiting to drag her back in.

She couldn't do this.

Denial always had been her best friend.

"We don't have a daughter."

She was crying and he was so pissed off and it was all just so fucking messy.

She could taste the anger tainting the air and waited for him to start yelling. He didn't, though. It was quiet and controlled, "_You_ don't have a daughter. _I_ do. I have her name tattooed on my fucking back. You can't ever fucking take that away from me. So don't even try."

She didn't want to hear this. She couldn't hear this.

"Don't say that!" she shot back, "Just don't!"

_Don't say it. Don't say her name. Please don't say her name. Please, please just _don't say her name.

"What?" he took a step away from the counter, "That she's not mine? Because she is, Quinn. She's mine, and I'm never giving her up again. You don't want her, and that's just _fine_. I don't give a shit if you don't want her, because I do. And I'm not letting anyone take her away again."

Her breath shuddered to a stop. Her chest hurt, her head hurt, everything _hurt_. How could he say that? It was like getting hit; like losing _her_. How could he say that? How could he think for a second that she didn't want their dau—

"Just stop, please!"

Her mouth and her brain weren't connected anymore. Her mind was racing with all the thoughts, all the regrets. Her mouth—her _voice_—just wanted him to stop.

"Why should I, Quinn?" he stepped up to the island, placing his hands on it and glaring at her, "Why the fuck _should_ I?"

"Can we just not—" she was shaking, more than she had since that time. Surely he remembered that bloody Christmas too. She backed away from the island, leaning against the wall because her legs were having trouble supporting her weight.

She watched through tears as he seemed to soften a little. He walked around the island towards her; her legs were shaking too badly to run away.

It didn't take long for him to catch her around the waist, pulling her close and keeping her standing, "We have to."

No, no they didn't. Denial was her forte. Deny, deny, deny. That was the way to go. It was the only way to cope until everything was said and done and then she could just make all these dark days disappear and pretend that everything had been okay from the beginning.

"Just stop," she protested weakly. Any energy she had was draining away from her, leaving her too tired to do anything.

"Look at me." he ordered. She didn't comply, instead burying her face in his chest. Her eyes were closed tightly. He tried again, "_Look_ at me, Quinn."

She stopped shaking at the realization that he said her name. Twice, at that. Without really meaning to, she looked up at him. It took her a few moments to say in disbelief, "You said my name."

"Yes, I do that," he responded, "Sometimes."

She shook her head, "No, you don't. You haven't said my name when it's just us since _that_ time."

_That_ time being that bloody Christmas during their sophomore year. She knew he understood her. It was impossible to think about them being alone without thinking of that night when the bathroom floors were stained red and she had fallen into that black hole.

"No shit."

Her scowl returned, "Excuse me?"

"No shit," he repeated.

The scowl deepened, "Puck, just say what you have to say."

"Course I haven't said your name. Not when you're dating that skinny-shit kid. Just-fuck no," he shrugged.

She couldn't help it. Her lips turned up slightly in a light smile as her tears continued to dry, "Jackass."

"What d'you expect?" he grinned.

"I don't know," she looked away, "You to have grown up?"

He whistled low, "And the pot calls the kettle black. Interesting."

"What?"

"Don' worry about it."

Because she was Quinn, and growing up wasn't a subject Puck liked to think about. Because growing up meant leaving his little Beth behind, leaving her with _someone else_, and that had never been okay, not even at the start. Quinn hadn't wanted to keep Beth, and Puck understood—he understood that they had just been _kids_. They hadn't understood anything or even what they had put in motion.

He'd been six-fucking-teen (or maybe a sick fucking teen, because all he had been able to think about was Beth's tiny perfect hands curled into fists, so like her mother's. So like her mother's). He hadn't had a fucking clue.

At eighteen-almost-nineteen, he was little better.

But at least now he understood what it meant the feed and clothe one child—after Ruthie, Beth would be a piece of cake. Nothing could be worse than Ruth.

"So what'd'you wanna do?" Puck asked, quietly. When she looked at him, confused, she clarified, "About Beth. What do you want to do about Beth?"

"Puck, don't."

"Don't what? Don't ask? She's coming back. We need to decide," he told her, because it was the truth. They would be parents again— rather, she would be a parent again, because he was _still_ a parent— and there was very little they could do to change that. Puck wasn't going to put her back up for adoption. Not again. Never again.

"Can we wait to talk about this?" Quinn asked, lips white and trembling.

"Wait 'til when? 'Til she's here? No. We can't wait," Puck said.

(They never could wait.)

"And I can't do this right now."

"Are you serious," he said, and it wasn't a question.

"Do you see me?" she asked, spreading shaking arms wide. Tears gathered in the pits of her eyes, white-lipped, eye-make smeared everywhere.

And Puck had no sympathy, "Yes. I see you better than you see you."

"But you can't read my mind. I can't handle this right now," Quinn told him, shaking her head in little jerks. She seemed frozen in place and Puck took a careful step forward.

"I've been reading your mind for longer than either of us have been alive. You can handle it. You just don't want to." he told her quietly, as he took another step towards her. It was like approaching a wounded animal— _no sudden movements, Puckerman_, he reminded himself, "There's a difference."

Quinn's voice was a tear-choked whisper, "...I can't lose her again."

Puck sighed. He should have seen this coming. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, and stared at the ceiling. There were swirls of grime on the stucco. _That couldn't be healthy_, he thought vaguely, "Then take her back. She'll have two parents. Give her that."

"Will she? Can you really promise me that?" Quinn asked, with a sudden, metallic glint in her eye, "No more sexting Santana or any of that? I'm asking for monogamy, Puck. And I've got Sam, unless you've forgotten."

Puck just shook his head, slow. He couldn't take his eyes off her face, because she had no clue. She had no idea what it was like, wanting her, "You have no fucking clue, do you? No fucking clue."

"About what? Tell me, what 'clue' am I supposed to get? I know you want to keep her too and I could kiss you for that, but you have done nothing to prove that you can actually do this."

Puck realized he was going to have to tell her. Tell her everything— about Ruth; about rarely talking and sleeping even less; about the silence of the house and how it rung for days; about the click of the door as his mother left three days before Christmas-even-though-they-never-celebrated.

"...You should come over sometime," Puck murmured.

"I should— wait. Puck, you've told Ruth, haven't you?"

He shook his head, still staring at the ceiling, at the floor, anywhere but at her, "Not yet. I dunno how she'll take it after— anyway. Not yet."

"What? No, Puck. I'm not coming over until she knows. She's just as involved in this as we are."

Quinn could be so blind, sometimes, Puck mused, "She's more involved. I can't— I can't tell her on my own. I've tried."

"So you want me to do your job for you? She's _your_ sister, Puck. Does she even like me? I don't know how she thought about B— how she thought about the situation when it happened. Did you talk to her at all back then?"

Puck noted that Quinn still hadn't said their daughter's name (and sometimes he reveled in it— in saying her name, because it reminded him that all good things came full-circle, even when they hurt), "'Course I did."

"And? How did she take it? Did she even understand? She's nine now, isn't she? That means she was—god, she was _seven_ back then. She was just a kid. How much does she actually remember?" Quinn questioned, scrunching her nose up and blinking at him.

"All of it. Fuck, Quinn, she thought she was going to have a sister. Someone to take care of."

Puck couldn't even begin to explain what that had meant to Ruth. He would never be able to explain it, not to Quinn, not to Finn, not to anyone. Ruthie had always wanted to care for people; she just didn't always know _how_, and Puck didn't want to encourage her into caring for something that would eventually break her.

"...And now? Can she adjust to that? It's been so long. Can Ruth really adjust to that now? What about your mom?"

Puck stuttered, torn between defending his little sister and raging about his mother. The latter won out, "Don't fuckin' talk 'bout that woman. I can't fuckin'— just can't fuckin'— fuck, fuck, fuck."

..."Puck, what happened?"

"She's gone. Been gone for months. Ruth's... yeah."

For a very long moment it was very quiet as Puck tried to gather himself. He only let himself close his eyes for a second longer than a standard blink, before staring Quinn in the face, and almost grinning. She looked _horrified_.

"What?" she yelped, "Oh god, Puck, why didn't you _say_ something?"

He chuckled and shrugged, "What was I supposed t'say?"

"God, Noah, you know you can talk to me about things like that," Quinn murmured, looking miserable. Puck thought they probably both looked miserable. He _felt_ miserable; she never called him Noah unless— unless— unless nothing. She never called him Noah, period.

"C'mon, seriously? We haven't looked at each other in six months," he murmured, taking another step forward. She hadn't ran, yet, but he was expecting it to happen in the next ten minutes, and he couldn't allow that. "And you had other problems. I wasn't gonna add to that."

"Because you've been chasing after every skirt in the school for the past year," she replied, glaring at him through slit eyes (Puck winced). "And I'm over that. You know that. I haven't done that in almost two years."

Puck said nothing. He took that final step forward. He grabbed her hips, picking her up and setting her on the counter next to the sink. He was already pulling her skirt up, because somehow Quinn never responded to things unless someone forced them in front of her face and that was what Puck was about to do.

"Puck, stop!" Quinn screeched, kicking violently. But Puck was taller, stronger, and wasn't about to let this go.

"No. Look at them, Quinn. _Look_."

She shook her head, and tried to shove him off again. "No. I see them every time I take a shower; every time I change clothes. I don't want to see them any more than I have to. I swear I'm okay."

Puck sighed. "Quinn. Just look."

"Why? Why do you want me to do this?" she whispered, shoulders trembling.

Puck swallowed, and ignored the tears that were pooling in the corners of Quinn's eyes. "Because I wasn't gonna add more pressure to what you put on yourself."

Quinn was shaking in the circle of his arms, a hot mess in polyester. "But I've been good for two _years_. Years, Puck. It wouldn't have been too much. I was getting better before this stuff happened and I haven't done _that_ again since this started. I've _been good_."

"An' I was okay on my own."

She looked at him, eyes hard despite the tears (Puck remembered why he liked her in the first place—because she was strong. The strongest person he knew. There was something in that appealed to him, because even when Quinn was falling to pieces, she could still cut someone to shreds with just a look).

"And Ruth? What are you going to do? College on top of raising two kids? You're eighteen, Puck and you don't have a job."

He shrugged, tracing nonsense patterns on her thighs. "I'll figure it out. The bakery was looking for someone to do some heavy lifting. We all know I can bake."

The _with pot_ hung in the air between them, unspoken. "Yeah, I knew."

"There you go," Puck muttered, a savage little grin quirking up his lips.

There was a long moment of silence where Quinn simply looked at him, measuring. Then came the oh-so-Quinn rebuttal. "Really, Puck? You're going to work in a bakery? What about college?"

"Don't have time."

Quinn stared. "You'll give up any dreams you had just like that?"

"I'm taking back my dream."

"What?"

"Her. I'm taking her back."

"Just her?"

"Family, Quinn. That's it. A normal family."

"How normal would that be? You and I, unmarried and not together, raising two kids and...oh," Quinn said, and Puck watched the cogs turn in her brain as she realized something. He was tempted to twiddle his thumbs as she worked though it. "No, Puck. I'm with Sam."

"I never said you had to be part of it. I just said that my dream is a normal family."

He was expecting the slap. He hadn't expected it to hurt so much.

"Ow."

"Jerk."

"That wasn't nice."

"Since when am I ever nice?"

"You're always nice," Puck said, his voice kept carefully blank, free of sarcasm or innuendo.

She looked away. "And you're always so blind."

"I also never said I didn't want you to be part of it. Because I do." Because he'd always want her to be part of it, despite Lauren, despite Ruth, even despite his mother. Despite everything, she was Quinn, and she fit. "But you're right. You have Sam. And I won't get in the way of that."

Quinn stared at him, perplexed. "When did you grow up?"

"When I realized I was all Ruth was going to have."

Puck stood in between her spread knees, and they looked at each other for another long moment.

"She's lucky," Quinn said, quietly.

Puck knew he ought to move back and give her her space, because she was still shaking. But he'd come so far already— backing off would be counterproductive, and Puck wasn't in the mood to counteract all the work he'd just done. "Would you?"

"Would I what?"

"Help with Ruth. If I asked."

"That would depend on how you asked."

He narrowed his eyes and said "I'm bringing Ruth into this. Does that mean shit to you?"

"Puck, stop ruining the mood," Quinn deadpanned.

He shook his head slowly. No, she didn't understand, because Ruth— his Ruthie— she was... odd, to put it delicately. There weren't really words that explained the kind of little girl Ruth was. "Quinn, I'm not playing. Ruth's... different. If you're in, you're in for good."

"...I was going to go to college," Quinn murmured. "I wanted to be a Certified Nurse-Midwife. I wanted to help women and be supportive in a way no one was of me."

"And that's okay, too," Puck shrugged again, because it was.

"No, it's not," Quinn said, shaking her head almost unconsciously. "Med school is expensive. If I went, the chances of them going where they want to is lower."

"It's your life. You should be able to do what you want," Puck countered, almost grinding his jaw. He had to be sure that she wasn't going to leave when it got hard, because leaving behind a two-year-old and a nine-year-old wasn't okay.

"I want them to have their dreams," Quinn said. "And I want to be there to see it."

"Then you're in?"

If she was in, it would be better. Puck silently prayed to a god he wasn't sure he believed in, and listened to her breathe.

"Yeah, I am. I'm supposed to go get coffee with Sam after school today. I'll break things off with him then," Quinn sighed out. She paused for a second, and looked at him, more seriously than Puck had ever seen anyone look at him in his life (but then, most people wrote him off; to have Quinn looking at him like he might have had some potential meant more than words could convey). "We're really going to do this, then?"

"It won't be easy. We'll fight. We'll fight like hell. It'll be mean and sometimes we might hate each other," because Puck had seen hate. Puck understood hate. "But I won't go anywhere. It'll just be you. Only you."

"Do you promise? Do you promise not to fly away anymore? _Can_ you promise me that?" Quinn asked, and Puck wondered if she realized she was unconsciously pulling away. "I've been there before, Puck, and I'm sick of being Wendy. I can't stay with a Peter Pan."

Peter Pan. He'd read that to Ruth. It was a sad tale, and it shocked him that he understood what she meant.

"I'm not never-grow-up anymore. Give me some credit," Puck said slowly, trying not to smirk.

"Yeah, I probably should," Quinn replied just as slowly. He thought that she must have been trying not to smirk right back at him. But then she continued.

"And Puck?"

"Mm?" he hummed.

"Can you get your hands out from under my skirt?"

"Heh. Never."

"Bitch."

"I'm not the bitch, babe, you are," Puck smirked. He'd forgotten how easy conversation with Quinn was.

"Oh, no. You're _the_ bitch. I'm just _a_ bitch. There's a difference, hun," Quinn told him with a roll of those green-pasture eyes.

"Really," he stated. Because it wasn't a question. Because with Quinn, there never _were_ any questions; she was Quinn, manipulative and perhaps a little too smart for her own good. And weirdly, Puck still liked it.

"Really."

"Someone's got an attitude," Puck almost tutted.

"Grass is green."

"Stating the obvious, now, are we?"

"Oh good, he does have a brain."

His hands were still up her skirt, but they were pressed close together. They both laughed softly, wondering where on earth they were supposed to go next.

* * *

He was only expecting to go to the nurse's office for a band-aid after cutting his hand open on, of all things, a piece of paper. He hadn't really thought about going past the kitchen until he heard the familiar voices of Puck and Quinn drifting through the empty hallway. The former skipping class was nothing new, but the latter was such a perfectionist that skipping was almost unheard of in her academic history (to his best knowledge, which was really very good).

As he got closer, he could hear the teasing tone in both voices. They were flirting with each other, he realized. It wasn't that surprising with Puck. The delinquent was known as a womanizer and his history with Quinn Fabray was well-documented. Quinn, on the other hand, was known for her aversion to Puck in the wake of their sophomore year as well as for her determination to master commitment after the Mono Incident last year.

He moved closer to the door, leaning over to peer inside. He sat up sharply at the scene within, cheeks flaring red. He would not have been so surprised if the scene were innocent and nothing more than a jovial reconciliation between old friends (assuming, of course, that pre-baby they were friends). Instead, he had stumbled across something more befitting a bedroom than a high school kitchen. Quinn was sitting on the island counter, her legs spread and her skirt pushed up to her hips. It had looked like Puck were tracing patterns on her upper thighs.

They were standing closer than was appropriate for two persons with a history such as theirs.

He needed to get away from there before either one decided it was time to leave their tryst (or before things became more explicit). He could not, however, return to class like this. The cut on his hand could wait; he needed to find Brittany.

"Brittany!" he called out quietly as he approached her in the library.

"Hi, Artie. How are you?" his girlfriend looked up from whatever strange book she'd discovered. She paused as he grew closer, her eyes narrowing at something just above his eyes, "You look like Giles again; your forehead is all wrinkly."

"I think Puck and Quinn are sleeping together."

He had never been good with delay. His father was always teasing him about it when asking what his day at school was like. Rather than telling the mundane, he always jumped right into what he deemed the most important part.

She gave him a quizzical look, "Sleeping together? As in sleeping-sleeping? Or just...sleeping?"

He wasn't aware there was a difference. She was always saying things like that, though. He knew she was intelligent, she just didn't display that intelligence. Or rather, she displayed it in a different way that meant it was as rare as a blood moon.

"As in sex, Brittany," he corrected her.

"Oh," she looked almost disappointed before brightening up, "So Quinn _is_ a mom again?"

He sputtered, "Excuse me?"

She giggled softly, smiling with her eyes closed, "Well, I heard someone say that Quinn was going to be a mom again."

"That's just a rumour, right?"

She shook her head, "Santana told me."

"Why am I not surprised?" he muttered, hanging his head.

Brittany gave him a look that suggested offense had been taking, "But Santana never lies, so it _has_ to be true!"

Somewhere from behind the bookshelves, the librarian hissed.

"I know that, Brittany," he whispered, "I was referring to Quinn being a mother again. And that it was Santana who told you."

"Oh," she smiled.

_Poor Sam_, he thought, only for his stomach to drop. Sam was too important to the football team. If he reacted the way Finn did, then they had a chance at surviving while they trained the new recruits. If he reacted the way Artie thought he was going to, then they were ruined and the team would be so broken that training would likely fall to the seniors who would stay out of it: Artie, Mike, Matt, and the Gorilla.

They were screwed.

"Wait, does Sam know?"

Her responding look was not encouraging, "Um, I don't know. Santana might have told him."

"Might have or might?" he asked.

"She, um," Brittany was fiddling with her hair and that was never good, "Probably told him. Already. Maybe? I don't know."

The muscles around his left eye began to twitch at the possibility of Santana breaking the news to Sam, "Can you go find her and, if she hasn't already done so, stop her from doing so?"

She placed her hand over his, her look sympathetic, "Artie, you know that Santana-"

"Please?" he interrupted, "The football team depends on it."

She was silent for a few moments. She was chewing on her bottom lip, though, which was good. He learned long ago that that meant she was giving serious consideration to his request.

"...Okay," she finally agreed, "But don't get mad when she yells at you."

"It'll be worth it," he said, relief washing over him.

"Oh, okay then."

She didn't sound optimistic about it.

Artie sighed.

At least she would try.

* * *

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Extra thoughts from us:

Originally, this chapter referenced Puck/Lauren twice. We've removed it because we can't keep up with canon anymore. We knew this was going to be different from canon, but we never expected canon writing to fall apart the way it has. We're trying to address the problems in _Glee_, but that's a bit difficult when there are so many. With Laurent, the major problems can just as easily be addressed with Mercedes, so that's what we're going to do instead. Because we need a minimum number to keep New Directions in competitions, we're keeping Matt Rutherford (who transferred at the beginning of season two as the actor left the show). Lauren may get a mention in relation to students outside of the club, but she's not a major player within VBR.

Our storyline is taking up more space than we expected. Because we don't want to overlook anything, it's going to be a while until the main plot really comes together, especially since the characters have no idea what's going on for most of the story. We've already set the plot in motion, though, so do believe us when we say it's there. We've also had at least one person complain about our placement of this story under Kurt and Blaine. We've done this because the main plot is strongly connected to Blaine first and Kurt second, but because Blaine is in Rhode Island until the end of the story...yeah, see where I'm going with this? This is the first in a trilogy, which means we fully intend to take our time with the main action. Our focus is mostly on the characterization flaws in canon. The action comes second to this. Understand?


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